Mr & Mrs Black
by Jinchuu21
Summary: The best love is found in the most unexpected places in the most unexpected people. (Inspired by Mr. & Mrs. Smith) (Rating for possible future chapters)
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER OR MARVEL.**

 **AN: I now have a BETA. This chapter has been BETA'd and is being reposted.**

 **Special thanks to Kingofclubs8129. He's been a big help as a BETA. Go check out his stories.**

 **Another special thanks to Prodigal Knight and momter. Along with King of Clubs, I've bounced ideas around with them. They've helped me really iron out some details.**

 **XXXXXXXXX**

She was a masochist.

At least, that's what anyone would have thought of Natasha Romanoff if they could peer inside of her mind.

She sat quietly at a quaint little café that was across the street from a public park. It was summer and there was no shortage of children frolicking on the playground. They swung on their swings, jumped on their see-saws, and ran around laughing with an innocent glee that could only be found in the young.

Some of the parents watched from the sidelines, shouting words of encouragement and caution, while others actively participated, making fools of themselves as they doted on their offspring's childish fantasies. However, no one paid that any attention. They were all just trying to have a good time, ensure the hour or so that they were in the sun made their children smile.

It wasn't the first time Natasha had sat at the same exact café, staring at the kind of life she knew she would never have. Envy was a distasteful emotion and Natasha would never say it out loud, but she was envious. Her childhood wasn't one filled with smiles, laughter, or love. It was all bruises, bullets, and blood. There were no caring parents to read her stories and tuck her in. There was a Madam who never hesitated to make it clear that failure was not an option.

Twisting around beside her envy was longing. While failure was not tolerated in the Red Room, success came at a very heavy price. The removal of possible futures. It may have been her lack of childhood that made her want to be a mother. She wanted a chance to give a better life than the one she had received. But there was no chance of that.

Natasha would always wonder what the joys of motherhood would be like. The question of what it would feel like to have life grow inside of her, to know that her body was nourishing and protecting something so amazing, yet so fragile. She would always wonder and never know.

There was only one logical conclusion. There could only be one reason why Natasha put herself through the torture of watching a future she could never have. It was insanity to put up with the dull ache that pounded in her chest every time a child's laughter rang in her ears.

Natasha was a masochist.

She had to be.

That life wasn't for her. There was no perfect husband, house with a white picket fence, and two and a half kids. Her world was one filled with corpses and caution. She barely had time to date, let alone have a meaningful relationship.

It was unbelievably difficult to find someone who could understand her. The hours, days, or weeks Natasha spent away on business made it hard to know someone. And made it even more difficult to find someone worthwhile who would stick around.

Not to mention the secrets. A very polite word for 'lies'. Her lack of social life and friends was not fully by choice. Natasha could hardly gossip about her boss or her day at work. Talking about what high-security target she had to escort or what supposedly secure facility she had broken into was not polite dinner conversation. Nor could she imagine talking about calibers and the effect barriers, windage, and distance would have on them. Those sorts of things tended to kill conversation almost as fast as they did her targets.

That wasn't to say that Natasha had a problem with being alone. All her life she had been alone. Natasha wasn't happy. No man was an island and all that jazz.

Natasha sensed him as soon as he got within threat–range. As creepy as it might have been to even think, she always sensed him. It wasn't some weird mutation or special power, but the training that was so ingrained it may as well have been instinct.

He was always at the same café, at the same time. Her paranoia made Natasha think he may have been a spy or an assassin who had come to take her out. He certainly moved like someone with training, possibly military. His movements were graceful, serpentine in fluidity. But weeks had gone by where the stranger had done nothing out of the ordinary.

Dozens of days passed with him doing nothing but drinking tea, reading the funnies section of the newspaper, and occasionally giving a small, wistful smile at the children on the playground. It was ironic that Natasha believed him to be spying on her, waiting for her to drop her guard, and yet she was the one clocking his every move.

It was just strange to her. The man was devastatingly handsome. Not in the way of models that you saw spread across billboards, but a realistic, comely way. He was average in most aspects, but she couldn't help but find average attractive on him. What was strange was that he was always alone.

There was a natural quality to him. He wasn't abnormally tall, standing at approximately five-foot-eight. His hair was spiky, but not from product. It was wild, untamed, and he was fine with that. A freshly shaven face always greeted her, showing off his chiseled and angular jawline.

Natasha could see the strength in his form. The broad shoulders and wide back that tapered to a slim waist. It wasn't a gym body. None of his muscles looked overly developed, no visible striations. It was functional, useful, and judging from the callouses on his hands, probably from some sort of martial arts training.

His clothes were tailored to fit his physique. They weren't custom, but tailored for a professional look. A light blue long sleeve shirt that had the top two button undone and the sleeves rolled up to just before his elbows. Beige slacks with a perfectly ironed crease down the center and brown oxfords accompanied his assemble.

Neat.

Professional.

Average.

The kind of person she never would have paid attention, never have given a second look. He was visually harmless. If only it wasn't for his eyes and smile. Those were what caught her attention, something Natasha had only caught on a chance glance in his direction.

Her own eyes were sea green, like the color of the ocean as it splashed along the shore. To call his eyes green wouldn't have done them justice. Even, comparing them to emeralds was unjust. Emeralds were unfeeling, jaded, and sharp. His reminded her of grass. Lush, green grass that poked out of the snow in Russia, signaling the end of winter.

There was a coldness in his eyes, a tinge of jealousy as he watched the children play. He longed for something as the tiny humans ran around. Something from his past or a longing for the future was anyone's guess, but Natasha understood the feeling.

She understood the small curling of his lips, a grin that he always hid behind his cup of tea. He took pleasure in their joy, wondered at their endless naivety. Natasha couldn't fully comprehend it either. The simplest things could make them laugh endlessly. One minute they could cry like the world was coming to an end, only to stop with a small comforting gesture; an embrace, a small kiss, and the world was okay again.

"They are beautiful aren't they?" He asked, his accent distinctly British. Natasha did her best not to turn before he addressed her, did not give away that she was abundantly aware of his presence.

"Excuse me?" Natasha replied, turning slightly to look at the sharp planes of the visage she had already memorized.

"I'm sorry, that ended up making me sound like a pedophile." The man laugh lightly, "I meant the children. They are pleasant to look at."

"That doesn't make you sound any less like a pedophile." She joked over her shoulder. He gave a noncommittal sound, standing for only a moment, before turning. Natasha did not know why she spoke up. There was no reason for her to entertain him. But, the words just jumped out of her throat before Natasha could even try to stop them.

"But, yes, they are nice to look at." Now she was the one to sound like a pedophile. To his credit he didn't repeat her words, giving just a small chuckle.

"May I join you?"

"Why?" It came out harsher than she intended, instead of out of the curiosity it was born from.

"You look lonely."

The comment hit closer to home that Natasha would ever let on. Not only was it not his business, but she was ninety-eight percent certain he did not have the clearance to know anything real about her.

"Is this where you lay some cheesy line on me about how pretty girls shouldn't be alone?" She plastered a fake smile on her face.

"No," He replied, sitting down on the chair opposite of her, "I'm not nearly smooth enough to pull that off."

"I didn't say you could sit down." Natasha challenged with a raised brow.

"Considering you are still entertaining this conversation, it would only be a matter of time. I figured we could skip that and go on to the part where I try to brighten your day." He smiled back before placing his attention on his newspaper.

"That's awfully presumptuous of you."

"You can blame an old friend of mine. She always said I have this thing for saving people."

"And I look like I need saving to you?" Natasha could not help but grin. The byplay was amusing. On most people, the words would have sounded conceited. But, coming from the attractive British stranger, it was just a recitation of facts. His friend had said something, so that was how it was.

Natasha doubted he would have any thoughts of her being a damsel in distress if he knew half of the things she could do. Just from their position, on the table they sat at, there were no less than half a dozen items she could use to kill him. Not that she was bragging.

"Yes." Was his curt, but polite reply.

"And what exactly do I need saving from?" She humored him.

"Yourself." He said matter-of-factly.

"Ha! And you said you weren't smooth." Natasha scoffed in good humor. He didn't know a thing about her. "That has to be the smoothest, monosyllabic line I have ever heard."

"It isn't a line. It's the truth." He replied from behind his newspaper, only to fold it a moment later.

As he placed it on the table, Natasha was met with the most intense stare she had ever received from anyone. And she had stared down the gun barrels of some of the most ruthless villains on the planet, so that was saying something.

He was staring directly at her. Not at her face, her eyes, or as most men did, her breasts. After a moment under his gaze, it felt as if he could see what she really was, like those bright green eyes were lances, piercing right into her soul, and Natasha was unsure if he would like what he saw. After all, there were plenty of times where she even couldn't bear to stare at herself in the mirror.

"You sit here alone, watching the children at the park. You don't understand. You know they're happy, but can't really comprehend why. The concept is foreign to you. And you envy them that. Stop me if I'm completely off base."

She resisted the urge to gulp. On the outside her face was stone, as hard and cold as a statue of glacial ice. She had never been the type to wear her emotions on her sleeve. They had trained that out of her. Facades of emotion could be used as strength. But true emotions…they got people hurt or killed. Emotions were a weakness. And Natasha was anything but weak.

That did not mean he did not intrigue her. Because he was right. He saw directly through her, even if she wouldn't admit it out loud. A part of her was frightened. It had been a long time since someone had known what lived behind her eyes, an even longer time since anyone could relate. And even if he hadn't said so, Natasha had a feeling he could empathize with her on some level.

"Not completely off base." Was the only response she offered, letting him take the lead.

"I'd say rough childhood."

"You could say that." Natasha nodded.

"Orphanage?"

"Yeah." While not exactly an orphanage, it was the closest polite term that could be used to describe the Red Room. And, it wasn't the cliché version of a rough childhood, but there hadn't been anything normal about her upbringing. Her whole life had revolved around spy craft. While other little girls were pretending to be princesses, Natasha was being taught various parts of human anatomy; the ideal places to strike, stab, or shoot to put a target down and make sure they never got back up.

"It's okay you know." He said, surprising her.

Good looking men like him didn't want damaged women. They weren't worth the time or trouble. They could have their pick of the litter, no need to spend time fixing the broken ones when there were plenty of pretty women who were already ready to go.

Especially not on their first meeting, most people would have excused themselves and never looked back. But he was still there, drowning her in his understanding.

"But, it could be better." She replied.

"Everything could always be better. The grass could always be greener. The land just beyond the horizon," He deftly waved his hands as he listed off clichés. "But, we must never fail to enjoy where we are in favor of what may be on the other side."

"And what if there isn't anything worth enjoying where we are?" Natasha questioned, unable to help herself.

He had hypnotized her, drawn her in with his fortune cookie wisdom. There was no denying he found her attractive, the signs were obvious. But, it wasn't his intent to seduce her. He genuinely just wanted to help, to 'save her'.

She almost scoffed at the thought. A real White Knight in their day and age. A valiant hero who fought for the sake of idealism. It was preposterous, but nonetheless real, as he was right in front of her.

"Our lives are what we make them." He smirked, causing her to giggle. She wanted to smack herself for sounding like a crushing teenager, but Natasha couldn't help it.

"Even you can't be that optimistic." She said, failing to control her laugh.

"It's pragmatism." He riposted. "I understand that there are things in our lives that we can't control. If you can't find pleasure in one aspect of your life, then find it in another. You hate your job, find a hobby. Needless to say, somethings are much easier to say than do, but ultimately, we are the ones in control."

It wasn't a competition. There was no score card, no prize at the end. But Natasha knew she was losing. Losing what, she wasn't sure. Maybe, losing the battle with herself to brush the stranger away. He wouldn't be around. Whatever their current situation was, he wouldn't be around long. And it disappointed her to a degree that she couldn't fathom. He was no one to her. It should have been nothing for Natasha to get up and walk away. But she found herself not wanting to.

"And you?" She asked, hoping to turn the tables. "What do you see when you look at them? You come here just as much as I do."

"So you have been watching me." He teased. But she didn't take the bait, content with waiting for an answer. A part of her wished she could catch him in a lie. Walking away would be so much easier if he were a fake. Especially if he turned out to be a good fake.

"Hope. I see hope." He replied reflectively. "I grew up with a rough childhood myself. Dead parents, abusive relatives, being bullied, and all the other clichés."

The smile that crossed his face was not fake, to her surprise. He did look back those times and was able to brush them off. Not for one moment did Natasha discount his tragedies. Until she knew more, Natasha wouldn't discredit anything. After all, she outwardly appeared normal, but that didn't mean her mental scars were anything to laugh at.

"It took me a long time to be able to see my situation from the outside. And even I can't take full credit for that. For a long time I felt sorry for myself. It wasn't until my eyes were opened to how bad life could really get that I just stopped. I stopped pitying myself and moved on. There was a whole life ahead of me and I would never live it to the fullest if I kept looking backward. So, believe me when I say that it's okay." His tirade was short, but sweet and ended with a smile. A smile that Natasha could not help but reciprocate.

It was happening a lot between them. More on her part than his. She was finding herself unable to regulate the basic functions she had been taught to control around him. Worse yet, Natasha couldn't explain why. What she did know was that she was slowly warming up to his company. In the last few minutes, Natasha had genuinely smiled and laughed more than she ever had on a first meeting. She found herself craving more of it. Desiring to continue this small bit of normality.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot. Natalie Rushman." Natasha said before presenting her hand.

"Harry Black." He introduced himself, surprising her with a firm squeeze. It was a subtle showing of respect, that he regarded her as an equal rather than some fragile doll that needed to be handled delicately. Her regard for him rose. Only by inches, but it rose nonetheless. "And what is it you do Ms. Rushman?"

Natasha leaned in closely, pantomiming that she had a secret to tell.

"I work for a secret government agency that is tasked with defending the world." She whispered, before tapping her lips with her forefinger.

It felt good to be honest, even if he wouldn't believe her. That moment of honesty was liberating. She fully expected him to laugh, brushing off her statement as a flight of fancy. But, surprisingly, he took it all in stride.

"Sounds dangerous. Does it include hazard pay?"

"No," She answered absently. "But, I get to travel to exotic places."

"Do you include all your work related receipts for tax purposes? People don't think it equates to much, but you'd be surprised how much of a tax break you can get." He replied interestedly. Much more interestedly than most people would be when talking of taxes.

"What are you? An accountant?" Natasha asked with a teasing smile.

"Of a sort."

"Oh, how mysterious." She said much to his amusement. "Tell me more."

"Nothing as exciting as being a government agent." He smiled. "I'm an auditor of a sort. The company I work for has interests all over the world. If there is a problem or something is amiss, I'm sent in to fix it. As I said, not at all exciting."

"I don't know. Sometimes excitement is overrated. Having a nice, stable job sounds nice."

"The government agent field is unstable?" He smiled, going along with her joke that was not so much a joke. "There are always bad people that need to be put away."

There were times when people arrived at a crossroads. Natasha was at that point. She could go on about her real life, having Harry think their conversation was one gigantic made-up story. Or, she could tell him some semblance of truth. Something that he would believe. It wouldn't be a lie, just not totally accurate.

"I'm a model. Asian circuit mostly, but I'm looking for some work in the States." Natasha said, as if admit some shortcoming. It was a point in his favor that there was no gleam in his eyes, as if he had just snagged himself a trophy. His smile shifted from teasing to something softer, something pleasant and understanding.

"Does it make you happy?"

It shouldn't have been as loaded a question as it was to her. It should have been simple. He was just asking if he enjoyed her job. But Natasha wasn't thinking about the job that was going to be her cover. It was the job that came before that came to mind.

Did it make her happy?

She had joined as a way to survive.

Natasha had caught their attention in a very bad way. They had sent one of their best to eliminate her. And if it were anyone else, things could have ended very differently. If Clint had seen anything less in her, seen something wrong, Natasha could have been six feet under in an unmarked grave and disavowed.

It could have also gone the other way. Clint wouldn't have gotten much more than she did. Declared missing, the only acknowledgement to his actions to be a nameless star on some wall of a government building. His wife and children would have been fed some lie about a training accident or something equally ambiguous before being offered his sizeable life-insurance policy as consolation.

There wasn't much difference. One man's terrorist was another man's freedom fighter. Such was the way of life. When all the propaganda was taken away, when the situation was looked at objectively, it all just came down to a matter of allegiances.

But, in the handful of years since she had changed her allegiances, Natasha could honestly say that her work-life was better. There was a lot of red in her ledger, so many names on the list of lives she had taken. In recent years though, her job revolved around protecting people…saving people.

People still died, but in defense of her or someone else's personal safety. To some people, it was a small change, but to Natasha, it made all the difference in the world.

However, that didn't answer his question. Her profession didn't make her happy. She was good at it, praised for it, and held in high-esteem because of her proficiency. But, that didn't mean she enjoyed it.

The closest comparison would be to soldiers in war. They didn't do it for enjoyment. Rather, it was just the amoral reality of life. Someone had to do it. It was a necessary action, lest a civilization or society be caught unprepared and destruction come down like rain. Violence, whether as a threat or an action, as a deterrent.

So, was Natasha happy with her job?

"No," she finally answered, "but like you said, if we can't find enjoyment in one part of life, find it in another."

"Well, I hope you find it, Natalie." Harry said, looking at his watch. It was a classy looking piece. Breitling, if her guess wasn't off. "I hate to leave, but I'm due for a teleconference soon. I will say that it has been a pleasure to speak with you. I couldn't fathom why we waited so long."

She took a glance when he presented his hand, a signaling of goodbye. Natasha knew that whether she shook his hand or not, Harry was going to leave. Nonetheless, she hesitated because she didn't want him to.

Her brain mentally reset from a hard slap courtesy of her subconscious. Natasha grew painfully aware that she was entering the realm of the love-sick teenager. It was a miracle that she hadn't started to swoon.

She was a successful woman. A government agent and trained assassin with forty-eight confirmed kills under her belt. She had broken into some of the most secure facilities around the world. Trained and hardened agents had broken under her interrogation technique. Natasha knew how to keep her cool, knew how to take the shot when the opportunity presented itself.

Natasha offered one hand, elbow placed on the table, her other hand closed with her knuckles lightly holding up her chin.

"You're not going to ask what I'm going to do?"

"Well, I was going to patiently wait until our next meeting. But seeing as your offering, what do you plan to do?" Harry asked.

"I'm going to take you to dinner."

"Now who is being presumptuous?" He laughed.

"I'm not hearing a 'No'." She pointed out.

There was a moment of silence. A moment where they both just smiled and stared. She wasn't sure if Harry was giving her an out, a chance to take back her proposal. If he was, he was going to be sorely disappointed. Because the words were out there. And, just like bullets, once they were out there, there was no taking them back.

"I'm staying at the Ritz Carlton. Shall we say eight o' clock?"

"So, I'm the one going to be picking you up?" Natasha chuckled.

"Well, you were the one to ask. It's only proper." He countered.

"Fair point." She conceded. "Eight it is."

They gave each other a single, firm shake. He shook his head slightly before turning away and making his way down the sidewalk. He was already twenty-feet away when Natasha realized that she had no way of contacting him.

"Aren't you at least going to give me your cellphone number?"

"Don't have one." He said over his shoulder.

"How am I supposed to get a hold of you?"

"Front desk. Room 421."

She just shook her head as he kept moving. Not that Natasha minded. It provided her something very nice to look at. Yes, she did not like that he had to go, but she certainly enjoyed watching him leave.

Even as Natasha watched his very firm looking derriere making its way away from her, she thought about the questions Harry had made her ask herself.

No, she wasn't happy with her life.

But, with the night to look forward to, it certainly got a little bit brighter.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: I now have a BETA. This chapter has been BETA'd and is being reposted.**

 **Special thanks to Kingofclubs8129. He's been a big help as a BETA. Go check out his stories.**

 **Another special thanks to Prodigal Knight and momter. Along with King of Clubs, I've bounced ideas around with them. They've helped me really iron out some details.**

 **XXXXXXXXX**

Math.

A broad spectrum of subjects that all coalesced into some of the most important aspects of her job. Range, elevation, and weight were important facts to consider when completing an assignment at a distance. At close range it was the number of guards, cameras, and exits.

Some of the calculations were complex; the correct grain and caliber of ammunition to successfully travel a thousand yards in medium wind through the resistance of architectural glass. Some were simple; how many guards and how many rounds were in her weapon (normally ten with one in the chamber), and how many spare magazines she had left.

In her current situation, Natasha could count by ear the fifteen pairs of combat boots that were chasing her and Clint down the corridor. From the sharp zings and cracks that impacted the walls, she knew they were carrying 5.56x23mm automatic rifles equipped with thirty round magazines. In terms of tactical gear that meant they were carrying anywhere from four to six extra magazines and a spare weapon with two extra magazines.

All that against her own three magazines, two Taser disks, two Flash bombs, two smoke pellets, military grade pepper spray, and a garrote. Clint carried twelve standard target points, three broad-heads, and eighteen varied tips: four explosive tipped, two grappling hooks, two incendiary, two burst shots, four Taser arrows, and four EMP Detonators.

All their weaponry. All their versatility. They were essentially MacGyver-ing their way through their situation. And, television always overestimated the hero's ability to outrun bullets.

There were a lot of numbers floating around in Natasha's head. And, while the aforementioned digits should have taken precedence given their situation, it would have been a lie to say that another significant portion of her brain wasn't more concerned with the primary and most elementary of mathematics.

One, two, and three.

Three.

The exact number of days she had waited after her date with Harry Black before the training-gorilla on her back forced her to ask Clint to put together a comprehensive background check on Harry. She could have done it herself, but it was personal and she didn't want anyone asking her questions. Besides, Clint was much more at home interacting with the other agents.

Two.

The amount of dates she and Harry have been on. The first date, a simple drink and dinner at a classy, yet not over-the-top restaurant. It was more of same at the café. Just some pleasant conversation where they stayed away from the specifics of their pasts. It was effortlessly domestic.

It was also the reason the alarm bells in her head went off. There was just something eerily off about Harry Black. Natasha knew that from the beginning of their first conversation and their dinner cemented it.

She and Clint were what dysfunctional upbringings did to people. Granted, she may be on the very far left of the psychotic spectrum – meaning she was a high-functioning psycho – but, she didn't get any sense of psychosis from him. That, much more than anything, was what was driving her crazy.

One.

This number irked her more than any other. It was how many weeks since Harry had called her. One whole week since their fabulous, if albeit juvenile, second date of miniature golf, batting cages, and destruction of the All-American confections known as Corn Dogs. He had been simultaneously delightedly surprised and amazed at how many she could wolf down.

Natasha wasn't some doe-eyed teenager obsessing that the cutest guy on campus hadn't confirmed their study date, there were no naïve nonsensical notions floating around in her head about how dreamy his eyes looked or how well he filled out his suit (though, they certainly were nice eyes and he did fill out his suits well). Her concerns were simpler.

Why wasn't he interested?

It was a point of professional pride for Natasha. She knew how to read people. Body language, micro-expressions, and plain old instinct always gave away people's intention.

There was an enormous amount of training that went into a spy so that they may be able to mask or suppress those inherent ticks of human physiology, and to be able to simulate emotion and expressions on that level took five-times as much training. Natasha would know, she had been through it all.

She knew Harry was interested in her. Dilated pupils, open face, parted lips, and constant attention, all the signals were there. He found her sexually attractive. Not that that was ever in doubt.

And she didn't believe she gave any indication that she wasn't interested. Framed her face, wore clothing that accentuated her curves, displayed a tantalizing yet tasteful amount of cleavage, and gave frequent but inconspicuous bursts of physical contact. He'd have to be brain dead not to catch all the signs.

Natasha didn't understand the problem. They had a great time on their dates, both of them were sexually attracted to each other, so why hadn't he called?

"This is such bullshit." She muttered under her breath, turning a corner and using it for cover from incoming gunfire.

"Oh come on Nat, we've been in worse scrapes." Clint said as he dove behind cover on the opposite side of the corridor.

Obviously she hadn't muttered quietly enough.

"Not them," Natasha replied "this is a cakewalk compared to Kosovo."

She drew her Glock 26, popped around the corner, and fired two shots. They were unlikely to hit anyone and she did need to conserve ammunition, but it was effective to keep them behind cover.

"Then what's got your panties in a bunch?" Clint asked, following her example and sending an arrow down the hall. An explosion rocked the passageway a second later.

Natasha rolled her eyes and tossed a smoke pellet and the trademark hiss split the air before their vision was lost. Smoke didn't seem like much, but visibility was one of the most important aspects of close-quarters combat. If they couldn't see them, they had some time, trained soldiers weren't going to go after them blind. That bought her and Clint a few minutes.

"If you ever mention my panties again, I'm going to tell Laura." Natasha was only half-teasing.

"Then what's on your mind? You've been off your game." Clint pulled another arrow and sent it hurtling down the passage. There was a small pop followed by small pieces of metal bouncing off the walls.

She resisted the urge to curse. Apparently, her mental 'musings' were much more blatant than Natasha realized if Clint could catch her spacing out. He was a good agent, but she was supposed to be the super-spy.

"It's nothing." Peeking around the corner, Natasha saw some poor unfortunate soul that had decided to brave the hazard of the smoke. Brave, but very stupid. Natasha rewarded that brave, but unfortunate soul with a 9mm hollow-point to the leg.

It was a strategy used by many guerilla groups. Mortally wound one of the opposition, forcing his comrades to extract them and halt their movement. Judging from the blood spurting from the man's thigh like Ole' Faithful, she had nicked his femoral artery. He had four minutes. Less if his heartrate was beating at excess of one-hundred-and-twenty beats per minute; which was a safe bet. They needed to wrap a tourniquet around it if they wanted to give him enough time for the lifesaving surgery he needed.

"Sure, sure." Clint said, preparing another arrow. "So you don't want me to tell you what I found out from Bobby in Intel?"

His mockingly innocent tone also got him a bullet…from her. He may have sensed it as he slowly turned his legs inward in an instinctual position known by men throughout time. For a moment, he was no longer concerned with the fourteen armed men baying for their blood.

"Okay, okay. Put the death glare away."

"Then spill. It's taken you way too much time to get that information as it is. I mean two weeks for a routine background check? Who do you work for, the CIA?" Natasha scoffed.

"Ouch, that's low, Nat." Barton theatrically winced before sending another scatter arrow down range.

"Just shut up and tell me what you found out." Natasha rolled her eyes and downed another two of their pursers. One was close enough for a clean headshot, at least as clean as those got, and another was clutching at his neck in attempt to stem the red fountain spouting from his carotid artery.

"We should probably move positions."

"You can't chew bubblegum and run?" She mocked before bolting down the hallway.

"Chew bubblegum and run? Yes." He replied, dogging her steps. "Chew bubblegum, run, operate my quiver, shoot arrows in a display of Olympic level archery skills, recite over twenty pages of information, and deal with your sarcastic barbs? What kind of superman is this Harry? Cause you really expect a lot from a guy."

Natasha pivoted quickly, going from forward to backward running in a single step, and put two rounds into the first man to turn the corner. It impacted against his chest plate and most likely wouldn't result in death. But catching two lead projectiles traveling at eleven-hundred feet per second was not a good feeling. Unless someone liked getting kicked in the chest by a horse…twice.

They skidded to a halt at another corridor and sought cover. Unsure of how many rounds were still in her magazine, Natasha quickly reloaded her weapon while Clint prepped another arrow. The boots coming after them were slowed, the sounds blending together as their owners came bounding up the hallway.

Their opposition was getting smarter. At least eight left using two four man columns to approach. One column would advance while the other provided suppressing fire. It was smart, but slow moving. They could only move so far before one unit would cross a firing vector. She decided to help them.

A quick pluck of her belt, and Natasha primed her Taser disk. When the compartments separated and emitted a bluish hue, she slid it across the floor. Shocking cries of pain and two dull thuds followed shortly after.

Seven left.

Clint turned the corner and loosed his arrow. Another scream. Another thud.

Six left.

"So?" Natasha elongated, seeing that they were no longer in such a precarious position. Fifteen trained and armed gunmen wasn't impossible for her to take care of, but six was a more manageable number. Compared to fifteen it was a walk in the park.

"Okay, okay. Jeez, easy there Kemosabe. I don't see what the big deal is. The guy is as boring as a trip to Pottery Barn." Clint grumbled.

"I will shoot you." Natasha replied automatically.

"Really, Agent Romanov? You of all people should know that physical torture never works." He was enjoying himself too much.

"Fine. I'll tell Laura you think the living room is getting dated." Natasha said, angrily chucking a gas pellet at the encroaching footsteps.

Coughing.

One thud.

Hastily retreating footsteps.

Five left.

"So? She's been wanting to redecorate for a while now. She'll just want to change the curtains, reupholster the chairs, and maybe change the rugs." Clint was mid-shrug, then his train of thought finally pulled into panic station. "Of course the cabinets in the kitchen won't go with her new color scheme. And, she has been saying we should replace the counter tops with marble. And, of course the fridge…"

Natasha stared straight ahead, but nothing could hide the smirk on her face.

She loved Laura. The woman had treated her like a sister-in-law from their first meeting. But she did get a tad overexcited about home decoration. Like, obsessively taking notes and watching house remodeling shows on the television excited.

"That's dirty!" Clint gasped. The scandalized expression on his face was priceless. Someone would think she had just jammed a stiletto into his pelvic bone.

"Yeah," She agreed, "So unless you want to spend your next month of weekends at home goods stores, you might want to start talking."

"Alright, alright." Clint coughed into his hand as if preparing for some big speech.

"Harry Black born July 31, 1980. Parents died in a car crash when he was one, after which he was sent to live with his aunt and uncle. Attended St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. I talked with the Headmaster, no real disciplinary marks against Harry. A few pranks, some altercations with students, and a few teachers. Boys will be boys kind of stuff."

"After school?" Natasha asked.

"That was actually slightly interesting. Opted out of school on April 10, 1996 and joined the Royal Marines at sixteen. Took night and online classes while he was in and got his degree in Accounting. Deployed to Afghanistan three times, twice in 2001 and once in 2002. Earned one Conspicuous Gallantry Cross and two Military Crosses. Guy was a pretty good Marine. Again, a few altercations with a couple of superior officers, but nothing to get demoted over.

"In 2001, he received inheritances from both his dad's family and his godfather. After putting his twelve-month notice and one final deployment, Sergeant Harry Black was Honorably Discharged from military service."

"Must have been really good inheritances." Natasha whistled, firing blindly around the corner.

"It was. They both came from old money. Like 'helped unite the Kingdoms of Britain' old." Clint said, taking his time to line up a shot before releasing his bowstring.

"How much?" She asked curiously.

"Why? You going to live true to your name?" Clint teased.

Natasha shot him a piercing look.

"Fine." Clint surrendered. "Stupidly large."

"Clint…" She warned.

"Like if you piled it up, it would come alive and try to take over Tokyo." He went on.

"Clint…"

"If Scrooge McDuck swam in it, it would be like watching that guy swim the English Channel."

"You know what," Natasha cut in, "The kids are growing up. Maybe I should tell Laura that sports and unicorns aren't really fit for them anymore."

"They're four and five." Clint deadpanned.

"You really think Laura is going to care." Natasha riposted.

"Fair enough." Clint nodded. "But, you're not going to believe me."

"Try me."

"468,473,213 Pounds Sterling." Clint rattled off.

Natasha took a moment for that number to settle in. She wasn't the type to be impressed with riches. In her 'travels' Natasha had met plenty of them. Drug kingpins and arms dealers typically had a good amount of liquidity. Though she doubted it was that type of reserve.

Most women would have liked the fact that the man they were dating was well-off. However, to Natasha, it just made her all the more suspicious. Harry was sweet, gentle, kind, and loaded. It beckoned the question: what the hell was he doing with her?

"Anything else? Something more current? He wasn't real clear on what he did for a living." Natasha asked.

"And I suppose you were oh-so honest with him?" Clint smirked.

"I was." Natasha trailed off slightly. It wasn't a total lie.

"Uh huh. So, you didn't go with the model cover that Fury has you working up for the INFIL into Stark Industries?"

He already knew the answer. That smug look on his face spoke to that much. She could have danced around the issue, evaded the question like a MIG-22 avoided a heat-seeker, but the answers locked within Clint's psyche were more important. Natasha went the quicker route to her objective.

"Pottery Barn, Clint, Pottery Barn for months upon months." She warned, earning her a very exaggerated eye-roll.

"His official title is Chief Auditor of Special Risk for New London Capital Investments. It's a commercial real estate development and invest firm." At Natasha's blank stare, Clint expounded. "He's their number one fixer. The company has real estate property all over the world, if there's a problem Harry's the one they send to fix it."

"So knee-capping, finger-breaking, and blackmail?"

"No." Clint blinked owlishly. "I know I should be surprised that your mind automatically went to that, but honestly I'm not."

"Considering our usual crowd, can you really blame me?" Natasha challenged.

It only took Clint a moment to run the question through his mind before he nodded assent. They did run with a particularly different crowd. Their acquaintances did work blue and white collar jobs, but it was hardly in the traditional sense. No sane person could fault them for their paranoia.

"Not really, but did he give you any 'vibes'?" Clint asked.

"That's the problem. Given what he and you have told me about his background, nothing I pick up off him makes sense. I mean military life after years of traumatic child abuse makes sense, but how did he end up in that position if his family was rich?" She reasoned.

"We are talking about the early 80's. Documentation was on paper. Things got lost in the cracks. It's not that hard to imagine one kid got misplaced in the system. Even with the massive leap in technology, that still happens today." Clint argued.

Natasha was on the verge of spewing out more negative thoughts when something in the hall caught her attention. She leaned out and fired into the incoming forces. Just as quickly, Natasha ducked back in to avoid the hail of automatic gunfire.

Two left.

"Hey guys!" Clint called out. "We're kind of having a heart to heart right now. Can you give us a few?"

Gunfire was the reply.

"Guess not." He muttered. "Look Nat, I'd really like do this whole girl-talk thing where we share our feelings and possibly braid each other's hair, but can we revisit this conversation when there aren't gunmen trying to riddle us with bullets?"

"Is there more pertinent information?" Natasha asked.

"Nothing really. Established an orphanage in Kent and Newport and gives to multiple charities anonymously. He has a few investments, a couple of nice places to stay in London, Monte Carlo, Hamburg, and New York. Stays off the radar. No publicity, ex-wives, or children." Clint rattled off.

"Okay then." Natasha said.

Before Clint could get another world off, she chucked another Taser disk down the hallway. As soon as the device detonated, her feet pounded pavement like a bat out of hell. There were two targets left, both struggling against the electricity that coursed through their bodies. She would have left them as they were. Truly, she would have. However, when they reached for their weapons, instinct took over.

It was automatic. Her gloved fingers tightened around the hard polymer of her Glock, her arm raising almost as if a puppeteer was pulling her strings. The sights leveled, her eyes squaring perfectly down the barrel. Focusing on the front sight, Natasha squeezed the trigger to the rear.

Experts will tell people that the 'bang' was supposed to be a surprise. But, that was just so beginners didn't anticipate the recoil. Clear front sight post, slow steady squeeze of the trigger, and surprise recoil. Those were the rules.

Those rules didn't apply to her.

Years of practices perfected her trigger control. Her eyes instinctively knew to zoom instantly from clear target to crystal clear front sight. The recoil was no longer a surprise. She embraced it, welcomed it even. The gunshot set her free.

Close range, two rounds into the closest soldier's chest-plate. Switch, two more rounds followed. They weren't dead. But that didn't last long. On autopilot, her arm swung out and she squeezed the trigger. Switch and repeat.

Her slide locked back to the rear. A wisp of smoke fluttered from her chamber. White, grey, and red were splashed against the topaz tiles and walls. It was done.

She should have felt something. Most people's hands or body would have shook from the adrenaline rush. But, for Natasha it was just par for the course. It was a sad thing to admit, but she was perfectly fine. With a steady hand, she touched her earpiece.

"Mission Complete. No friendly casualties. Prepared for extraction from our location." She said, refreshing her empty magazine.

" _Affirmative, Agent Romanov. Roof EXFIL in five-mikes._ _"_ The unnamed SHIELD agent replied.

That should have been the end of the transmission. There was nothing else to report. Yet Natasha still hesitated. The question was on the tip of her tongue. Before she could make the decision, it was taken from her.

"Where there any messages for either of us while we were away?" Clint clicked into the conversation.

" _Uh_ _…_ _two messages for Agent Romanov._ _"_

She and Clint shared a look. His amused, hers a mixture of attempting to stop the twitch in her eye and not filing down her teeth from the grinding.

"Why wasn't I informed?" She grated, holding back in an attempt to be polite.

" _We were told to hold all non-vital communications._ _"_

"When and from whom?" Natasha asked, once again attempting to keep her tone civil.

" _One was three days ago and another was yesterday. No name attached, but the number belongs to the Ritz Carlton in Downtown Los Angeles._ _"_ The agent said, the trepidation evident over the radio.

There were a plethora of words she could have said, none of them flattering. Sticking to the idiom, 'if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all', Natasha cut the line.

"At least he called." Clint said weakly. She just gave him a droll stare. Clint sighed, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "On an unrelated note, please tell me you couldn't have done that the whole time."

"Not the whole time." She dodged, paying the bodies no mind as she made her way to the roof. It was a very small facility and the fifteen they had managed to 'disable' were the bulk of the guards. She and Clint wouldn't have any problem with stragglers.

"So, there was a point in time, during us getting shot at, that you could have quickly ended the hail of bullets, but didn't, just to pump me for information?" Clint asked.

"At a certain point, either of us could have ended the altercation." Natasha continued to hedge, making her way up the stairs to the roof.

It wasn't much, but to him, it may as well have been a full blown admission. Clint's mouth opened and closed. Opened and closed. He repeated it a few more times before shaking his head, "Again, I should be surprised, but I'm not."

"In a way, I'm a little disappointed in myself for not being able to surprise you. At the same time, it's nice that we know each other so well." Natasha admitted.

They both shared a small smile. Hers amused and Clint's wistful. This was why she couldn't have regular friends. Normal people would have been, for lack of a better term, pissed off that Natasha had held back for the sake of information. At best they would have avoided her like the plague and at worst they would have tried to kill her. Clint just understood.

That's why they were friends. They understood each other. Clint wanted to leave his past behind and for the most part, was able to. He had the wife and kids and perfect house.

He understood that she couldn't leave her past behind. It was engrained in her. The best part was, when her training did flare up, he didn't hold it against her. He just understood her.

The Quinjet came in fast and low, the propulsion jets turning vertical like a V-22 Osprey. It didn't even touch the ground, merely opening the cargo bay doors. The flight chief waved them to enter quickly and they weren't ones to argue.

"So…" Clint almost sang, "when're you going to call him?"

The smirk on his lips made her want to slam the back of her fist into his face and knock out a few teeth. Clint would probably laugh it off. At least that's what Natasha chose to believe. It made wanting to smash her fist into his face more reasonable.

The only thing that stopped her was Laura's displeasure. Her pseudo-sister-in-law would not take to well to her husband needing major dental surgery. Damn Natasha and tender sensibilities.

"I could always call as your manager or something and explain that you were incommunicado for a photoshoot." Clint volunteered.

"I'll call him as soon as we land." Natasha insisted.

"Or, you could just do it right now. Just say you're on a helicopter flying back from a photoshoot on a sandbar or something." Clint pushed.

"Or," Natasha maintained, "I can call him after we land and debrief."

Clint gave her an amused look. The drone of the engines did nothing to drown out his humming of Backstreet Boys 'I Want It That Way'. Yes, the urge to smash his face in was growing by the second.

"Fine. Just stop with that infernal song." Natasha growled.

"'Infernal'? Wow, you have been hanging out with the Brit too long." Clint teased.

She ignored him and tapped her ear piece.

" _Send it, Agent Romanov._ _"_ The SHIELD operator said.

"Connect me to the Ritz Carlton in Downtown Los Angeles." Natasha commanded.

" _Connecting radio transmission. Encrypting communications."_ The operator stated.

"Do I need to explain what will happen to you if this is recorded?" She asked, her tone saccharine.

" _Um…no. Confidential Informant protocols are in effect._ _"_

"Don't make me find you." She warned once more.

" _Acknowledged. Over and out._ _"_

"Wow, Nat. I think I actually heard him pee himself over the comms." Clint snickered.

" _Ritz Carlton Los Angeles, how may I direct your call?"_

She had just broken into a Top Secret facility, faced off against fifteen armed guards, and survived on half a dozen gadgets, arrows, and twenty rounds. Yet being on the other end of that question had her heart beating in excess of a hundred-and-forty beats per minute.

There was that math again.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER, THE AVENGERS, OR THE SONG USED BELOW! I'M PENNILNESS!**

 **AN2: I now have a BETA. This chapter has been BETA'd and is being reposted.**

 **Special thanks to Kingofclubs8129. He's been a big help as a BETA. Go check out his stories.**

 **Another special thanks to Prodigal Knight and momter. Along with King of Clubs, I've bounced ideas around with them. They've helped me really iron out some details.**

 **The other AN was taken out.**

 **XXXXXXXXX**

" _They call me useless, careless, nobody ought to miss_

 _With the thing they don't understand_

 _They call me hopeless, heartless, there's no way out of this_

 _When it's so far outta your hand_

 _I confess there's a hole in my chest_

 _From the things that I did_

 _And the gun in my hand_

 _I won't rest till it's all done and said_

 _And I get what I give_

 _I'm a pain dealer, I'm a faith healer_

 _I'm a soul stealer, and I'm coming for you_

 _I'm a cold-blooded killer and I'm coming for you_

 _Oooh-ooh-ooh-ooh oooh-ooh-ooh-ooh_

 _And there's nothing you can do…"_

 _~ DAVE NOT DAVE – Cold Blood_

The needle was lowered onto the vinyl, a scratching emitting from the vintage phonograph that sat atop a Victorian-age corner table. Sound came into being, spreading across the open living room and flooding the lower floors. It wasn't as crystal clear as the new high-definition toys swamping electronic stores everywhere. The old thing had been around the block, survived an era. It wasn't new, but the old dog had character. Something Harry felt his new home needed to have.

Situated in the nice and generally quiet suburban neighborhood of Torrance, his house was in danger of falling into the trap the Dursley's had shrouded around themselves like armor and wielded like a sword.

Uniformity.

Sameness.

Monotony.

His 'family' had used that excuse to explain their behavior. Anything that was different had to be bad and therefore destroyed under the weight of their derision and ridicule. It wasn't something Harry wanted to emulate in the small portion of his life he could control.

He didn't hate something because it was different. It was the people of a generation that thought different, that believed the impossible was anything but, that made the world a better place. It was through their nonconformity, their curiosity, that some of mankind's greatest creations were invented.

Harry didn't believe in being unique for uniqueness' sake. Merlin knew that there were plenty of delicate little snowflakes in the world that chose any cause and fought it poorly all in the name of 'change'. In truth, they did nothing more than whine and complain about imagined injustices. Until they had gone toe-to-toe with a very angry mothering dragon in her own domain, they didn't have a leg to stand on as far as he was concerned.

However, the contemporary ambiance of the house that would be his future home did not sit well with him. Perhaps it was that the best moments of his life, life-threatening scenarios notwithstanding, were in a castle. Maybe it was all the linoleum and steel, the cold, hard, unfeelingness of it all. He never was able to put his finger on it, but the house as it stood would not do.

It was why he had stayed at the Ritz Carlton for so long. The contractor had said the renovation would take two weeks. However, as it always was when building, the time doubled and the expenses went over budget. Not that Harry minded terribly. He could certainly afford it, and more importantly, there just was no price tag for making a house feel like home.

Linoleum floors, cork cabinets, and metal stair-railings were replaced with varnished solid red oak. The white walls were halved by blue and gold Parisian imperial inspired wallpaper. The white paint and wallpaper bisected by matching wooden railings.

His furniture was the best and most tasteful of the Black Family antiques. Dark stained walnut dressers, teak living room tables, the ancestral Black dining room table, real silverware crystal goblets, and even large four poster beds that found new homes in his three bedrooms.

However, not everything was dated. Harry would be the first to admit that some modern advancements were better than their archaic counterparts. Places such as the bathrooms. Indoor plumbing was a wonder that even the magical community embraced. For all their insistence of sticking to parchment and quill, they were reluctant to keep the usage of chamber pots and outhouses. Not that he could blame them.

Harry's favorite part of the house was by far the kitchen, the only portion of the house that contained a modern feel. Black marble floors and counter tops against stained wooden cabinets, stainless steel top of the line appliances, and a nook with various bottles of expensive liquor with the appropriate bar glasses. It had everything he would ever need to put together an impressive meal or host a cocktail party.

Earlier memories of his life may not have painted the necessary skill of cooking in a positive light, but that changed later. His Aunt Petunia may have made it a chore, but as Harry grew older he learned that cooking held an appeal. Like the bespoke clothing he bought from world-renowned tailors and cobblers, like the design of his home, cooking brought some measure of control to his life. He controlled what to cook, what ingredients to add or subtract, and when he wanted to do it.

It required knowledge, skill, and precision. One did not hack away at produce, meats, or poultry. A good cook, professional or amateur, knew their tools and ingredients. They knew what vegetables, wines, or spices would give the dish that unforgettable punch. Whether talent, memory, or education, cooking was perhaps the ultimate art form, a simple chicken soup could warm the soul, a chocolate soufflé could incite a delight so sinful it bordered on arousal, and the perfect steak with a red wine reduction could be the very thing to crush all those workplace woes.

His home and cooking were what he planned to share with Natalie.

There had been a point a few days ago where Harry thought her uninterested. It wouldn't have been the first time he initially misunderstood a woman's intentions. Though many things had had changed about him since his Hogwarts days, his understanding of the opposite sex was not one of them.

He supposed that was why he fancied Natalie. She was oddly straight forward, but in a good way. Not afraid to speak her mind and act just as she pleased. Her chomping at corn dogs like a Cerberus during their date of miniature golf and batting cages was proof of that. The fact that she enjoyed the rather juvenile fun was something else entirely.

It was the story of his life. The dates he had been on before Natalie were a string of disappointments, one cliché after another.

Some found him too immature. They disliked his enjoyment of activities that children were often exposed to at a young age and grew out of with during the appropriate phases. It was a stage of his life he hadn't gotten to enjoy with the childish naiveté that most were born with.

Some were bothered by the unexciting life he lived. It was the rare person who found an auditor sexy. The stereotype of a short-sleeved oxford, pocket protector wearing quasi-bureaucrat didn't enflame the sexual senses. Not that Harry could blame them or truly care. He was happy with the little amount of normalcy he was afforded.

The rest, honestly only few in number, were much more sinister in their cunning. They saw past his boring profession, subtle show of wealth, and could rightly judge his vast monetary worth. He did try and give them the benefit of the doubt. Entertained the notion that they weren't just looking for, as Americans called it, a 'Sugar Daddy', but insistence on fancy wining and dining, invites for a modeling show on Rodeo Drive in exchange for footing the bill, only really led to one conclusion.

And, contrary to the lack of feminine touch in his life, Harry wasn't that desperate or that pitiful.

He didn't believe Natalie to be any of the above. She craved normalcy just as much as he did. It could have been due to their upbringing. The lack of loving parents that allowed and pushed them to remain children for as long as possible before the long years passed as quickly as an eclipse. Natalie appreciated his mundaneness. And he desired her all the more for it.

It was why even if a home cooked dinner was a tad too personal for a third date, Harry was willing to take the risk. He wanted to show her the person he wanted to be, expose perhaps the most vulnerable part of him, the part that longed for the Norman Rockwell American Dream.

It also had the added bonus of giving him the chance to end it early. If their wants and needs didn't coincide, then better to break off whatever budding relationship they did or could have early. The longer the time spent together, the stronger the connection, and the more difficult to break things off. Harry had plenty of tough decision to make, obstacles to vault over, he had no what or need for his romantic life to be complicated as well.

Those were matters best not dwelt on, that was a truth Harry had learned in Afghanistan. There were certain things that were just outside of his control. Things that no manner of magic or money could fix. Some things just needed to run their natural course.

Harry was saved from his rather deep musing by the telephone. He crossed the short distance from the kitchen to the living room, picking up the handset for the French-styled gold and black rotary phone stationed on the small circular coffee table. There were only two people with the number to his landline, Natalie and work. Either way, there was no way Harry could have ignored it.

"Black residence." He greeted cordially, praying that it wasn't a telemarketer. It was too soon for his number to have been circulated, but those buggers were extremely persistent.

An even more fervent hope was that it wasn't Natalie calling to cancel. He already had doubts when she hadn't answered his calls earlier in the week. She wouldn't be the first attractive woman to find him tediously normal and gratingly boring.

" _Good evening, Harry._ " Greeted a voice that Harry was thankful wasn't Natalie. At the same time, it was a voice he knew well and the tone that was set immediately allowed Harry to know that though they were sociable, it was anything but a social call.

He wasn't the only person touched by the reign of terror and destruction fielded by Voldemort. A good portion of the world felt his black hand. Whether it was the meaty palm that blanketed the United Kingdom, the claws that dug into Africa, or the fingers that swept over Eastern Europe, Voldemort's presence and tyranny had been felt the length and breadth of the magical and mundane worlds.

Vampire clans running amok in Romania and Bulgaria, nundus and grootslangs unleashed in Uganda, Kenya, and Niger, and small Death Eater sympathizer attacks in France, Italy, Greece, and Spain.

One of those most touched was Andromeda Tonks, mother to Nymphadora Tonk and wife to Ted Tonks. The Second War with Voldemort had robbed her of her husband, daughter, son-in-law, cousin, and sister. Bellatrix was a rabid dog who needed to be put down, but that didn't mean Andromeda could so easily cast aside the few good childhood memories she did have of her sister. Of all the people Harry knew personally, Andromeda had lost the most.

That was why when he had come to her offering to be a part of something that would help ease the devastation that Voldemort had wrought, the witch-turned-barrister had followed him like a crusader marching to the Holy Land. If not only because she did not want any innocent to suffer the losses she had, then to punish those who sought to take daughters and sons from their mothers, husbands from their wives.

Harry was the bankroll. With the end of the Lestrange line and Bellatrix's death, the entire fortune was transferred to their closest kin, the Black Family. With Sirius' demise and his making Harry the Black heir, Harry was entitled to the Lestrange Vaults and properties. And with Bellatrix's fanatical following of Voldemort and her long stint in Azkaban, she hadn't the time to spend her massive fortune. A fortune that Harry gave Andromeda access to, a fortune they used to start New London Capital and Investments.

Being the intelligent woman she was, Andromeda had petitioned investors and took bank loans to start the business that served as a cover for their cause. There was no real need for outside resources, but it did give New London a sense of authenticity. No one had heard of Andromeda Tonks and starting a multi-million pound company without startup capital would have raised more questions than they would have liked.

"How's Teddy?" Harry asked unnecessarily.

He knew his godson was well looked after. Andromeda made plenty of money as President and CEO of New London, and she spoiled the only remaining connection she had to her daughter. He wore the best clothes, attended the best muggle primary schools, and wanted for nothing. Harry knew he should have said something about it, but as he spoiled his godson just as badly, he didn't really have a leg to stand on.

" _He's well, Harry. Top ten of his class this year. You should hear him natter on about visiting you this summer. Are you sure you don't mind?"_ Andromeda asked, the twinkle that rang in her voice whenever she spoke about her grandson plain to hear.

"I'm sure. We can go to the park and throw the old pigskin around. I even bought him his own mitt." Harry said.

" _You are aware that a 'pigskin' is an American football and a mitt is used in baseball?"_ She replied after a pregnant pause.

"Are you certain? All the fathers at the pubs are always talking about 'pigskin'. I thought baseball was America's favorite past time?" He queried.

" _I'm quite certain. Pigskin, or leather, were what they used in classical footballs. Baseballs are typically cork and cowhide."_ Andromeda corrected.

"Oh. Well, I'll buy a football as well, both sorts, and we'll just see which he likes best. There's a large park not too far from my house. There's also a shopping center with a cinema nearby. Maybe take him to some of the amusement parks. We'll have plenty to do." He smiled, already imagining all the sort of activities he and Teddy would get into. If his luck held, he may even introduce him to Natalie.

"Are you sure it's not you who's hesitant to have him an ocean away?" He teasingly poked.

" _I will admit that the house will feel less like a home without him here. But he does have his heart set on it, and I can just never say no when he give me those puppy eyes. As you can understand, that comes with a completely different set of meanings where he's concerned."_ Andromeda huffed, much to Harry's amusement.

"Well, I doubt this is a social call. Shall we get on to business?" He asked, his glee melting quicker than a snowball in Hell.

" _Quite. I'm calling about a policy cancellation. We've already had a representative explain the situation and set forth our conditions, but the client was most resilient on the premium due. Considering the high level of risk for this account, you've been requested to deliver the cancellation letter as well as explain the terms. Please ensure they understand."_

Translation: a treaty party had already been sent and the 'client' did not wish to comply with the ultimatum set forth. Danger level high, heavily guarded and armed. Neutralize threat and send a message.

His specialty.

"As you know, I am out the office. If you could send me the files, I'll ensure that the cancellation goes through and the policyholder understands the terms of the contract." Harry replied curtly.

" _They will be on your desk promptly. Please review them as soon as possible. This contract does need to be cancelled post haste."_ Andromeda replied.

Translation: Check the Vanishing Drawer in his home office. Target neutralization was to happen that night. The 'client' is pond-scum, no one will be sad that they are gone.

"Of course. I'll move some things around. Good Morning, Andi."

" _Good evening, Harry."_ Andromeda said just before the line clicked dead.

He set the handset in its cradle and contemplated. Andromeda had basically stated that he was to neutralize the target that night. Not something he would normally take issue with. However, he did have an important dinner date that night. And if there was one thing Harry Potter did, it was keep his word.

It was with a hesitation that he was unused to feeling that Harry took up the headset again and spun the number into the dial.

" _Hello?"_ Natalie's voice answered after the third ring. She sounded expectant. As if she knew who had called and was excited to speak to him. It made him feel like a proper bell-end.

"Hey Natalie, it's Harry." He sounded like a moron.

" _I know, I've got Caller ID."_ She gave off a husky chuckle that did more to him than Harry would ever care to admit in polite company.

"Sorry about this, but I just got a call from work." He trailed off.

" _Oh…it's okay, we can reschedule. I get how it is. Work is work, right?"_ The disappointment in her voice was as plain and clear. Yes, a proper bell-end he was.

"Wait, I didn't say reschedule." He quickly amended, resisting the urge to smack himself. It would have been better if they rescheduled. Scrambling quickly, so not to make an ass of himself, Harry hastily added, "I mean…you've been ditching my calls for sunbathing on a sand bar. I won't let you out of this so easily."

Almost immediately he regretted the words. He would never claim to be smooth, but he'd like to believe he was smoother than gravel. Judging himself on his previous statement, he surely wasn't. If anything, his social skills more closely resembled steel wool. It was a good thing Natalie took it with good humor and grace.

" _Okay, that's fair I guess,"_ she laughed softly, _"What did you have in mind?"_

Harry exhaled a slow breathe of relief. He took a moment, two seconds to be exact, to collect himself, "Well, can we put the time back two hours. It's a complicated account, but it shouldn't take me longer than that."

" _I don't know,"_ She teased him through the phone, _"What's in it for me? Aside from the great company, that is."_

He smiled at the compliment. A smile so wide, his cheeks hurt from the blush and threat of splitting his face open. "Well, I had a simple pasta dish in mind, but, I did skip out to the store for a good bottle of wine. I'm absolutely pants with wine, but I was assured by the sommelier that it was a good vintage and year."

" _Mhmm,"_ She nearly moaned into the phone, _"I never could say no to good pasta. I suppose I could take the extra time to freshen up. But you should consider yourself lucky, Mr. Black. Another girl might get the wrong idea from you changing a dinner to a late-night rendezvous."_

"Would that be so terrible?" He asked, immediately regretting it.

Luckily, she just laughed it off.

" _Depends if you play your cards right._ " She said, voice all smoke and husk. He honestly had no idea how to reply. She decided to do so for him. _"See you at ten, Harry. Make sure you let the wine breathe a little."_

"Yeah" Was as far as he got before the line went dead.

It took a moment for everything to settle in his mind. An aberration to be sure as he was always good at thinking on his feet. It was another aspect he enjoyed of Natalie's company. She was never what he expected, always keeping him pleasantly surprised. With a tune on his lips, and a hum vibrating from his chest, Harry damn-near skipped to his office.

The office was a perk of purchasing the house. Much like the rest of the building, it was very Victorian, a lot of wood furniture and fixings.

He had several tax books, an encyclopedic collect of the current published tax laws in the United States and United Kingdoms. His desk was a Brobdingnagian monstrosity, leaving only enough room for an average sized person to squeeze through without grazing the bookshelf. On it was another rotary phone, black but not so elegant in design as the one in the living room, and a shockingly heavy mechanical typewriter.

Magic and technology didn't coexist well. Though his home was not as saturated with ambient magic as Hogsmeade or Hogwarts, Harry still avoided such items in his home. The phonograph and telephone were technically technological, but lacked the advanced circuitry of modern gadgets.

The most important part of his office was the discrete link to his office, the first drawer of the aforementioned ridiculously large desk. As Harry sat on the large, stuffy and comfortable leather swivel chair, the first desk drawer lit up mutely. Pulling it open, Harry pulled out the medium sized folder stamped 'I.C.W' with another red stamp of a very angry looking unicorn off to the side.

Inside the folder were the pertinent details of his 'client': Marcus Baptiste.

Baptiste was a third-generation Sudanese smuggler. His father and grandfather before him were small time, not because of the money involved, but because of the products: conflict diamonds, endangered animals, and ivory. They catered to the wealthy and stayed away from other inventory that would attract much more attention.

He was not the sort of man Harry or his agency would normally go looking for. True, Baptiste's operations were heinous and absolutely criminal, but they were muggle crimes spread over the course of several countries. And some of those countries were not on good terms with their magical counterparts.

The ICW's interest in Baptiste was a more recent venture. Instead of the slow gains of endangered animals, conflict diamonds, and ivory, all of which were getting increasingly harder to transport because of increased shipping and airport security, Baptiste decided to cater to the magical world in commodities. And, as with so many other things, the most illegal and forbidden items often were the ones to generate the most revenue.

The man could have set about hunting dangerous magical creatures native to Africa, such as nundus and grootslangs. The magical governments of the continent would have probably given him a medal for his efforts. But Baptiste wasn't an altruistic sort of man. He went for the easiest prey that gave the biggest payout.

Albinos.

For reasons unknown to Harry, there were plenty of potions and rituals that called for various parts of an albino. They ranged from magical Viagra, and a cure to liver disease, to what people believed was a ritual to extend their lives.

What made such rituals and potions barbaric wasn't necessarily the 'ingredients' in question, though few would disagree that human sacrifices were abhorrent. It was the fact that there were plenty of other avenues available. Yet, some people addicted to the allure of the power of the Dark Arts chose the path of criminality.

Harry took a moment to peruse through the file, paying special attention to what intelligence had been gathered about the man's habits and where he would be that night. He didn't care much for the added pictures of Baptiste's atrocities or how many guards he traveled with, because those things didn't matter. Harry didn't need to see how bad his actions were, the words scrawled across the page were enough.

It didn't matter if Baptiste had an army equipped with automatic weapons, tactical assault vehicles, or a Merlin-forsaken tank. Harry was tasked to send a message; that the ICW Supreme Mugwump, Babajide Akingbade, would not abide such horrors while he was in power. And, considering some of those abducted were citizens of Uganda, Harry was sure Babjide would want that message delivered as thoroughly as possible. Delivered in a way that would echo into the hearts of other evil men.

He closed the folder and tossed it back into the top drawer. It was only shut for a moment before it flashed and Harry knew the paperwork had gone, back to whence it came. He opened the bottom and largest drawer to reveal a simple dial safe.

Harry took an antique narwhal horn letter opener and closed his fist around the sharpened teeth. A quick jerk saw a thin wound opening on his hand. Blood dripped freely on to the dial and handle of the safe.

" **Déblotché par mon sang**." He spoke, the safe flashing with magic. The dial spun wildly, jerking to a stop and twisting the opposite direction, and repeated once more. Just as the dial stopped, the handle jolted and gave a heavy click. The dense metal door swung open unassisted and against gravity to reveal the basic tools of Harry's trade. He whispered a simple healing charm for his hand, watching as the skin of the shallow cut knitted itself back together.

Magic at its core was a beautiful, wondrous thing. It could be versatile, powerful, and just as dangerous as any muggle weapon. But it was not the end all to be all of everything and it was hardly the most optimal option for any given situation.

In an age with muggle technology making it easier to record and spread information, wizards and witches needed to be evermore careful in their usage of magic around muggles. It only took one adolescent with a camera phone and the Statue of Secrecy was broken. That was an entirely different can of worms that all the Oblivators in the world couldn't cover up.

It was why all the operators of his unit were assigned muggle weaponry instead of being reliant on the wands wizarding society were entirely too dependent on. Because the truth of the matter was that while magic was versatile, muggle weaponry had come a long way since their last contact with each other.

There was a spell for almost any scenario and a ritual or potion for all the rest, but spells created light, required wand movements, and incantations. It allowed an opposing wizard or witch to dodge, block, or divert the spell that would cause them harm.

Harry had seen a great many things. Part of his life in Hogwarts had opened his eyes to how magical the world could be. Yet muggles had come a long way in terms of dealing death. He had seen spells blocked or dodged, hell he'd done a fair bit of both himself. One thing Harry had not seen was someone outrun a bullet.

A marksman may miss, the target could duck behind cover just in the nick of time, but there was truth in a bullet. When that lead projectile traveling at the speed of sound journeyed along its path, the target was in Death's hands. A bullet wasn't as versatile as magic, it only had one purpose. That's why it always told the truth.

He took the customized Glock 19 and 26 from the safe. The grip was stippled and smoothed of finger groves, barrel given a titanium nitride coating, and trigger housing group was smoothed for a more consistent trigger pull. They weren't pretty to look at, nowhere near as elegant looking as his holly or elder wand. But they were rugged, reliable, and would continue to fire when stuffed with dirt, sand, or grit. Just the kind of tools Harry needed.

Following the pistols was a six-inch double bladed Fairbyrn-Sykes dagger. It was a truer weapon than even his firearms. In a world of GPS satellites, laser-sights, and unmanned drones a good knife was perhaps the most reliable. It was meant to rend flesh, skim past bones, and puncture organs. In the proper hand it never failed, never lost reception, and never jammed.

While all three were magnificent products of engineering, it was their holsters that were a beauty of magic. Italian leather made by a world-renowned leather-smith in Wizarding Rome. Runic arrays hidden in the stitching charmed the holsters for retention, needing only a small burst of magic at the branded 'button' to be released. The twin magazine holders were also charmed and could hold a total of eight magazines without losing orientation.

Harry took his kit and made his way towards his room. He could hardly go out in his civilian clothing. They weren't anything remarkable, but it would be a pain to have them remade. Even more, he did not want to hear from his tailor how he had destroyed a work of art.

Speaking of the sartorial arts, Harry's 'uniform' was a black English-styled suit; of course, bespoke. There was really no other way to go in Harry's mind. The Italian-style was too lax for work, something to be worn on a hot summer day if one still wanted to maintain an air of professionalism, but hardly one that spoke to professionalism in its essence. And, American…well, they were much too off the rack, pretentious as it did sound.

An acromantula silk and Polyphemus sheep as the outer layer made it as difficult to puncture as Kevlar, but was also susceptible to cutting and slashing. The middle layer was the smooth scaled skin of a Peruvian Vipertooth, a dragon whose skin was magically resistant, but still had the natural thickness of regular snake skin. The inner most layer was another set of acromantula silk, it remained cool and wicked perspiration as well as any of those modern sport blends.

In short, his jacket, vest, and pants were essentially bulletproof. So long as no one sought to slice and dice at him with a broadsword or turn him into a pincushion, he was fairly well protected. It would hurt like the dickens, leaving bruises at best and broken bones at worst, but they wouldn't puncture.

The issue with the personal protective equipment was spells. His jacket and vest were able to absorb many different charms, however, some spells such as _Reductos_ , _Bombardas,_ and the famous Killing Curse were able to 'get through'. They wouldn't kill him per say, as they were rated to take the Killing Curse, but the resulting explosion would probably have Harry feeling like he had just been hit by a rhino.

He donned his 'uniform', adding a black cotton oxford and flat-tipped, skinny black silk tie. A final check into the body length mirror near the bedroom door, because Harry was nothing if not the consummate professional, and he was out the door.

He had a 'client' who was just dying to meet him.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: I know this song was made for the Black Panther film, but it seemed to fit my vision of Harry. So, don't hate me too much. I don't own Harry Potter or anything remotely related to Marvel. For that matter, in case people questioned it, I don't own Mr. & Mrs. Smith either, the film that gave me the premise to start this story.**

 **AN2: I realize now that the song last chapter would be far more suitable for this chapter and this for the last chapter. Or they could just be both suited for this chapter. Just my thoughts.**

 **AN3: This chapter shows Harry's own 'peculiar' mental state.**

 **AN4: Yes, there are so many author's note because of a Guest reviewer who non-constructively left a review about them. HA!HA!HA!**

" _I'm always ready for a war again_

 _Go down that road again_

 _It's all the same_

 _I'm always ready to take a life again_

 _You know I'll ride again…"_

 _The Weeknd and Kendrick Lamar – Pray for me_

The Kitty Lounge was a strip club on the very precipice of Little Tokyo. A seedy establishment that proclaimed its function with green and pink neon lights. It was the club that Baptiste had rented out to show himself and his men a good time on their vacation. The man certainly had cash to spread around considering the amount of money his family had accumulated throughout the years due in their business.

A pearl black Audi A6's engine purred as it came to a slow rolling halt at the empty parking lot. The windows tinted, license plates covered in infrared light, Harry wasn't too concerned with the security or traffic cameras recording his movements.

He pulled a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment. It was another work of genius from his agency. The outer shell was plastic, which like metal inherently unable to conduct magic because of its properties. But the inner core was wood, which was able to be retain a runic schema. It had a Disillusionment Rune that caused the same effect on electronic surveillance as the infrared lights, causing an illuminous glow to cover his face and for the mortal eye unable to distinguish his more prominent features.

The other two rune schemes were the Sticking Charm, so the glasses wouldn't just go flying off his face in the middle of an assignment, and a new runic array that replicated tapetum lucidum. Essentially, a poor man's night-vision. It tinted the world in white and black, voiding it of colors, but allowing him to navigate the darkness with an unbelievable clarity.

Harry ran his fingers through the bands. It took much more magic than it should to permeate the callous plastic and saturate the wood beneath, thereby allowing magic to fill the runes and activate the charms emplaced. The glasses were also a bit too Blue Brothers for Harry's taste, but a good amount of material was needed for the runes to be inscribed into the hidden wood.

A glance over his shoulder gave Harry an idea of the buildings architectural layout. Strip clubs weren't known for their complex designs. If anything, they were made to be as simple to navigate as possible.

They were typically wide open spaces with raised platforms so that customers could get good looks as the strippers did their routines and entice men to part with their cash. The walkways were often wide, giving enough space for waitresses to walk by and for strippers to guide their – sometimes intoxicated – customers to the VIP rooms for even more cash. Judging from the outside, as boisterous to the building's purpose as it was, it was very likely to be a barebones establishment. No need to hassle with lace curtains or those annoying beaded drapes.

Normally, because of the high possibility of civilian casualties, places like The Kitty Lounge would be considered a tactical nightmare. When people started screaming – in terror rather than the enthusiasm of scantily clad gyrating women – they became irrational pack animals. They flooded away from danger and towards prescribed exits, not paying any mind that the human eye was drawn to movement and they were more likely to get shot if traveling with the group rather than in any other direction. Never mind if bullets were flying from both directions.

Considering that Baptiste had rented out the business, it went to mind that the patrons would most likely be Baptiste, his men, the strippers, and perhaps a few waitresses and barkeep. Civilian casualties were still possible, but the 'odds' were in Harry's favor.

Baptiste wasn't the only one green lit. Harry was supposed to send a message after all. One dead smuggler wasn't something to write home about. It was a dangerous profession. No one would bat an eye if one was wiped off the face of the Earth. And that's what his agency wanted. For everyone to look with wide eyes and realize. Unable to turn away. Like a train wreck.

Because it wasn't just the trafficking and evisceration of people that made Baptiste such a monster; though he unarguably was. It was his contribution to the Dark Arts, a branch of magic that's sole purpose was to cause harm, control, and death while twisting the soul of the caster that was unacceptable. The entire affair was abominable. And Baptiste profited from that.

Which is why Harry was given the task. He was at heart the consummate professional. For as much leash as his superiors gave him, his job had rules. Harry wasn't some rabid animal that attacked anything and everything. There were very specific targets that were sought out for very specific reasons. But, just because he was a professional did not mean he couldn't be thoroughly passionate about his occupation.

Harry wasn't a rabid dog. He was a bad dog. The sort that owners may complain about shitting on the rug or destroying the furniture. But, it was that same ill-tempered, aggressive dog people wanted in their home when an intruder came around. The kind that demonstrated to all other would-be intruders that their house was off limits.

There were plenty of ways he could have handled the Baptiste situation. Harry could have abducted him after a night of partying, apparating him in his state of inebriation. He could set up an ambush on the empty streets. So many tactics and stratagems from so many years of experience ran through his brain. Militaristic and guerilla maneuvers that could have gotten the job done clean.

But, that just wasn't Harry's way.

As malicious as it may have been to say, Harry did his job for one reason. Enjoyed it so immensely for one reason.

Retribution.

Pretentious he knew. Harry thinking he was some divine power that could belt out justice. Even more pretentious of his agency to be truthful. However, it wasn't a question of if he had the right to do so, but more of who else would. From experience, that answer would have been: no one. Which is why Harry volunteered himself as tribute.

Because that was the truth of his profession. As distasteful as many may find it, ass horrifying as they might have believed it to be, it was needed. Necessary. Vital in the cosmic balance of good versus evil.

So many were willing to turn their heads away as the wicked perpetrated and profited from vile acts. Some for their own profit, some out of apathy, and some out of fear. The reasons didn't matter. The fact was that it was allowed to continue and there were enough people who pretended not to see.

Harry knew those people. The very same people who hefted the heavy burden of their salvation from a Dark Lord on his eleven year old shoulders. People who vilified him, smeared his name one minute only to extend with their arms, a grief-stricken plea on their lips for deliverance.

He had no savior. No one willing to take the encumbrance that no child should have to carry. No one cared enough to rescue him from the Dursleys. No one cared enough to protect him from Voldemort.

And there were others who suffered more than he did. Whose lives were stolen through no fault of their own. Their innocents trampled on by the greed of evil men. Allowed to be destroyed because of the indifference of good men.

Harry would not be one of those people. He would not walk around pretending that evil didn't exist. He would not shut his eyes hoping that if he did ignore it, the monsters would simply cease to exist. He would be what he had desperately needed so many years ago.

Nemesis.

The appropriate agent to inflict righteous retribution. An inescapable instrument for the demise of malevolent souls. He would actually listen to the cries of the innocent, hear their angry sobs and pleads for vengeance and he would deliver their justice accordingly.

It was why instead of planning some elaborate scheme, Harry merely got out of his car. Out of habit, he tugged on his jacket and laced a single button through its hole. A small impression of graciousness.

The gravel crunched slightly under the soles of his shoes as he made his way towards the two guards at the front door who had been left out of the fun. Harry could understand why they had been chosen. Tall and sinewy muscles hidden behind poorly tailored blazers. They were certainly intimidating. A very viable visual deterrent for any crowd of drunken college lads out on a night in the town who decided to make trouble.

"Private Party." One of them said in heavily accented English, stepping towards Harry with his arm stretched. The other was just a step back and to the right, readily waiting in the wings as backup. He could see their confusion at the inability to see his face. It didn't stop their advance, but Harry could see the caution.

It was such a small thing. That button holding his jacket closed and concealing his weaponry. It was nothing more than pieces of plastic and thread. But like the chain which held the Hungarian Horntail during his participation in the Tri-Wizarding Tournament, it was Harry's own leash. And like that chain, his tether to civility was just as easily undone.

As the man's hand pressed against his chest, as everyone settled into place, that small piece of plastic and thread felt like fiendfyre in between his fingertips. It burned and was so difficult to control.

Everything came into its proper place. As it always did. Years of training, of equipment being put precisely in its setting – weapons and magazines in their holsters and holsters in their own positions – had made it so. There was a reason why soldiers on the battlefield always setup their kit the same way. From their packs, to their plate carriers, it was set just as so. Just like that button.

Just so.

Just as is.

Just ready for its task.

With an almost negligent snap of his fingers, the fingers so adoringly caressing that oh-so seductive button of his jacket, he was liberated. As his jacket was swept away, so was the veneer. He was free to be the monster the world made him.

It was time to work.

Harry lashed out. A quick half-step forward, a jolting strike of the forearm attached to the hand raised against him with a forearm of his own, and a swift jab with the webbing of his hand to the man's throat. Number One's reaction was somatic; an automatic reflex that was separate of the body-mind relation.

Before his friend could even fully grip the weapon on his person, Harry's hand whipped out again. A red spark clashed with the gaudy neon green and pink light. A malicious color that was a brief flicker in the night. Number Two seized as stiff as the concrete building, arms and legs tucked tightly to his body, before unceremoniously falling over.

His body hadn't even hit the ground before Harry was back to Number One. Their forearms still in inches of proximity, Harry trapped it within his fist. As his other hand clutched the guard's neck, he whirled the man over his hip and hurled him to the ground. The body crunched much louder against the gravel than Harry's own shoes did moments ago.

He cranked on Number One's arm to the point of security and discomfort, placing his knee against the guard's neck with a concerning amount of pressure.

"How many inside?" Harry questioned simply.

"Fuck…you." That man managed to grunt. "We…kill…you."

Harry applied more pressure, allowing his prey a moment to realize his arm was knocking on the point of no return. "I don't do three-strikes mate. How many inside?"

"Fuck you." Was the reply. Harry would have shrugged if he could. Instead, seeing as the man needed incentive, Harry gave it.

It was remarkably easy to dislocate a shoulder once it was in a compromised position. All Harry needed to do was apply his weight, use his abdominals and obliquus to add torque, and…

The usage of 'pop' in 'popping it back in' was truly apt. For there was a small pop, a sound insulated by fibrous muscle tissue, and an agonizing scream. A scream that last all of half-a-second before Harry pushed his knee deeper into the man's neck, further constricting his wind pipe. He did manage to express his agony by flopping like a fish.

"Now you know that I'm not a liar," Harry drawled, almost sounding bored, "Trust me when I say, you don't want to know what happens on strike-three. So, again…please, how many bloody guards inside?"

As to remind the guard that just because his shoulder was dislocated, his arm still belonged to Harry and he could still inflict more damage in the terms of grinding the bone against other bone and the squishing of muscle in between the two; he gave the guard's arm a quick wiggle. Promptly followed by another pressing of his knee into the man's neck to stifle any useless sounds that would come out of his mouth.

After a moment, Harry let up and shifted a little looking into the man's peripheral vision. He gave an expectant look, knowing they both knew his question. When he got nothing after a few seconds, Harry finally did shrug, inadvertently lifting the man's arm with him and eliciting another grunt. The body's pain tolerance had been reached, shutting off the pain receptors in a fit to keep itself from feeling the physical distress.

Not that it mattered. As his quarry wasn't being cooperative, Harry had decided to move on to greener pastures. Grabbing the back of the man's collar Harry lifted the guard's head as far as their position would allow them, before abruptly slamming it into the intolerant gravel. Several times in rapid succession until he was 'QW'.

Quit wiggling.

He stood with a small huff of minor exertion, tugging on the lapels of his jacket to straighten it out. When the presumably dead, but assuredly unconscious, body beneath him gave a small shiver Harry quit it quick with a sole to the temple. He adjusted his jacket again.

With a smile Number Two couldn't see, Harry took the few steps to close the distance and sat down on his haunches. The guard's eyes were wide in shock and fright. His breathing was shallow and rapid. Precisely where Harry wanted him to be.

"Normally in an interrogation, the best strategy is to build report with the detainee. Allow them to see that they are not so different and establish that any information is for the common good or of intrinsic value to the detainee. However…"

Harry reached across his body, allowing magic to flow to his finger tip and unsheathed his knife. He allowed the green and pink lights to shimmer along the shiny stainless steel and reflect against the man's face.

"I don't have that kind of time. You see I have an engagement later tonight and I would be most crossed if I was to be tardy. Do you understand?"

The man wiggled what little he could within the confines of the Body-Bind Spell. Harry gave a small chuckle.

"I apologize, I have forgotten about that little charm on you. Please blink once for 'yes' and 'twice' for no." He instructed. "Do you understand?"

The man blinked once.

"Splendid." Harry's smile widened. "I should say something comforting right now. Such as how I am sorry about your friend. But, quite frankly, he was being rather unreasonable. I hope we can have a much more pleasant conversation."

Number Two was obviously the smarter of the two. He gave Harry one very eager blink.

"Good. Do you know how many guards are inside?"

Another blink.

"More than ten?"

Two blinks that time.

"More than five?"

One blink.

Not as much as Harry expected. Then again, he doubted Baptiste was the type of person to spoil common employees. The gathered may have been close friends and associates. It would fit Baptiste's profile. Please the boss, get close to the boss, and they would reap rewards.

"You wouldn't lie to me would you?" Harry got the feeling that if Number Two could the man would have shook his head so vigorously it would have snapped off. "Good. I'm assuming they are armed."

Another blink.

"Automatic weapons?"

Two blinks. His night was just getting better. Less than ten guards armed with pistols. If his luck held he'd be home, water for the pasta already at a rolling simmer and wine bottle breathing before Natalie arrived. Given the time, he didn't even have to worry about the normal traffic of Los Angeles.

But, to the matter at hand.

"Thank you for your cooperation, old son. I understand our meeting is a tad unorthodox and possibly disconcerting. You handled yourself amicably." Harry nodded.

The man's body, somehow, sagged. His eyes grew softer, moistening in relief. Harry smiled his unseen smile, patted the Number Two on the arm, and pressed the tip of his knife against the guard's chest.

Metal split apart muscles with the ease of Jell-O in between the second and third rib in a downward fashion. Six-inches of steel sank into the guard's heart, severing the thoracic aortic artery. Harry gave a quick twist, just until he felt the touch of bone. With a reverse-twist, he slowly slid the blade out.

Unlike the movies, blood did not spurt out everywhere. The human body was an elastic vacuum, wanting to keep everything it owned within itself. That was especially true with wounds deep within the body cavity.

It was why Harry went for the heart –thoracic artery specifically – instead of the carotids. The only thing covering the carotid arteries from exposure was a thin layer of skin. Perhaps, adipose tissue depending on their obesity. That would have been more mess than Harry wanted or needed.

However, the heart was covered by skin, adipose tissue, dense muscle fibers, and bone. External bleeding was minimal. It was the internal bleeding that was the kicker.

With the severing of the thoracic artery, Number Two had minutes to live. But, only seconds to know that. Shock would set in quickly from the lack of oxygen to the brain. The spine, where the cluster of all nerve endings went to, would seize, and he would just pass away.

Keeping one eye on the door, Harry cast two Feather-Light charms on the bodies. He was in great shape, but dragging two men who weighted over ten-stone a piece was a lot of work; never mind actually lifting them. Bodies handled differently than free-weights. Grabbing both men by their lapels he tucked them into the industrial-sized dumpsters in the alley. Thanks to the Feather-Light charm, neither made as sound as they impacted the black plastic bags inside.

The charm would only hold for a few minutes. Just enough for Harry to do his job, but not so long that muggle law enforcement would question why the bodies weighed next to nothing. After closing the lid, he rolled the heavy metal container in front of the fire exit. He could have just used a charm, but again…questions.

Entering into the club proper Harry was assaulted with the bass of the music. It thumped through the walls, against his chest, and into his ears. He could barely hear anything but the music. A double edged sword. They wouldn't hear him coming, but it would make it harder to place the movement inside without a visual.

His body was bladed, weak-side forward. He drew his Glock 19; weapon slightly canted, arms bent, and rear sight at reading distance. It was a stance ideal for weapon-retention. The wielder having enough room to shoulder-check a disarm attempt, but making full use of the sights.

Just before the bend at the corner he placed his back to the wall and slowly peered over. As expected Baptiste and his men weren't paying attention to the entrance, to preoccupied with their entertainment for the evening. It gave Harry time to do his tactical assessment.

Visibility was low. Darkened room with multi-colored strobe lights. Concealment was even lower. A few tables, booths that lined the walls, a bar at the far end of the room, and a single opening to the private rooms. The emergency exit was unviable.

Judging the combatants from non-combatants was simple enough. If they were wearing anything more than lingerie, they were a possible combatant. Harry doubted Baptiste was paranoid enough to imbed a sleeper amongst the entertainment. That put seven visible guards with and ten civilians; seven dancers, two waitresses, and the bartender. However, as Harry couldn't peek far enough to see the right corner without silhouetting himself, the factors were unknown.

The guards had separated themselves into little cliques. The three closest were facing the door, but paid most attention to the woman performing lewd acrobatics on the raised pole. Two were in the booths to his right, their vision and movement obstructed by the women dancing in their laps. The final two sat with their backs to Harry at the bar, again their movements restricted. Not only by the women half-sitting in their laps, but also by the drinks in their hands.

Unfortunately, there was no sign of Baptiste. That left three options. Either he had taken a tactical vantage view in the right corner, was in the private rooms, or INTEL had royally bolloxed the information. They were all likely. Baptiste could have wanted to have the safest seat in the room, he could be enjoying himself in private company, and it wouldn't have been the first time any sort of intelligence was inaccurate.

Either way, Harry would find out. He had his assignment and in five years, he had yet to fail. He wasn't about to have that change.

As he drew his Glock Harry reached up and turned off the 'night-vision' feature of his glasses. He bound out of his hiding place in a heel-toe combat-glide, making sure his weapon was hidden behind him until it was too late. As he cleared the doorway, Harry cast a glance at the right corner ready to address any threat.

It was clear.

The guards noticed him just a few feet from the occupied booth. Much too late as it put his farthest target at the bar at fifteen-yards. Hardly a difficult distance to deliver a hammer-pair.

As all eyes came to him Harry raised his left hand, the spell already building. The two at the bar threw the girls off themselves and were reaching, but it was already too late. A blinding white light flashed out of his hands. The room was bathed in a quick, but radiant brightness of a _Lumos_. Not as powerful or as disorientating as a M-82 Stun Grenade, but not as loud either.

Not that it mattered.

Harry brought his weapon up in a two handed grip, weapon slightly canted and at reading distance. Temporarily blinded, the best many could do was frantically scrounge for their pistols. The barkeep dropped behind the bar and the screaming started. On a positive note, none of the strippers moved from their spot, too frozen in shock and fear.

The three sitting closest to the stage were the first to go. Starting at the farthest, Harry delivered two bursts of death center-mass. The shots were an inch-and-a-half spread, clean into the sternum.

It was almost instantaneous death. Not only because of the hot lead piercing organs, but because of the bone barrier they punched through. It turned the human body against itself in the form of natural shrapnel.

The two in the booth were next. They were much closer. Harry only needed to take a step or two and he could actually touch them. He went for the kill-shot. A single round into each of their T-Boxes. It had the advantage of stopping anything they were planning to do and be as far away from the girls attempting to phase themselves through the seats.

Harry was about to address the last two guards when a man emerged from the entrance to the private booths, pistol drawn and face wildly searching.

Baptiste.

Like a snake Harry closed the foot gap between them. The barrel of his pistol clashed against Baptiste's teeth, sending his head back. As he reeled Harry grabbed the man's gun-arm and put a shot through Baptiste's shoulder, perforating his brachial artery. The limb went jerking away, the gun sent scattering to the floor.

To make sure Baptiste didn't run Harry gave him another 9mm to the pelvic girdle. It wasn't fatal, not as life-threatening as the geyser pulsing from his arm, but it would make sure Baptiste wasn't going anywhere. The smuggler probably would have sent him a Christmas card if Harry called him a medic.

Harry left the man bleeding on the floor. Ejecting his magazine, Harry put his partially spent mag into his coat pocket before refilling with a fresh one.

The music was still blasting, making it impossible for Harry to locate any of the last three by sound. Instead, Harry grabbed his target and threw him out of cover. If his own men riddled him with bullets, then it was no skin of Harry's ass. If they didn't, then it was a useful distraction.

No sooner than did Harry create his distraction did he pop from the top of the booth providing him concealment, a bullet whizzing just by Baptiste's head and impacting into the carpeted floor.

Only one target was visible. Harry changed that quickly with a Failure-Drill. The two bullets went through him and into the bottles behind his body, while the third went cleanly through his nasal cavity stopping against the mirror.

Knowing there was one more Harry didn't wait for 'pop goes the weasel'. Staying low he crouch-walked around towards the bar's opening on the far side. As he peered over, the last guard was huddled over in the fetal position with his pistol against the bartender's temple finger already on the trigger.

One false move at the civilian was dead. Harry crept slowly, using the music to cover his movement. He didn't even give a warning or ultimatum. Harry just crept up, tweaked his wrist to bring his weapon inches away from the man's temple, and squeezed the trigger.

The man's head snapped to the side as hot lead tore through him. Blood and bone exploded unto the bar, his body collapsing over. Harry was quick to snatch the weapon in his limp hand.

"Thank you. God, thank you." The bartender babbled, eyes moist with appreciation. Harry felt a little bad for slamming the butt of his gun against the man's temple. He didn't believe the bartender to be a threat, but he couldn't risk him running or calling the police.

As it was, the four minute response time Harry was expecting was almost halfway gone. He didn't want to end up in a position where he would have to get violent to get away. Baptiste and his men were one thing. Law Enforcement was another thing entirely.

While it was true that they may not have been able to trace his car, that only applied to electronic surveillance. The human eye couldn't register infrared, so his license plate was still visible. Better not give them the chance to see it. Harry wasn't a professional Obliviator. Performing it incorrectly could cause all sort of problems.

A glance at his watch confirmed that his two-minute mark was seconds away. He gave the bartender a cursory check, ensuring his pulse was still strong before making his way towards Baptiste.

The man was crawling through the pain, using his one good arm to slide himself across the floor towards his gun. Harry took the few steps towards him and paused Baptiste's struggle with a foot to his injured pelvis. The screaming almost drowned out the music. With his foot he turned the man over and crouched down beside him.

"Who are you?" Baptiste demanded.

"You may call me Mr. Black." Harry answered, knowing that nothing he told the man would matter in a few moment. "I work for the ICW."

It dawned on the man why Harry was there. His fear was almost palpable. Like a douse of pheromones in the air that wafted up into Harry's nose.

"Yes, Mr. Baptiste. You have been a very naughty boy. Trafficking and supply of items deemed illegal by the ICW." Harry shook his head.

"Please. A doctor. I can give you names, locations." Baptiste said, holding his bleeding arm. Harry couldn't blame the man's wish to live. And if he were a different person, he may have obliged him. But, he wasn't.

"You had that chance Mr. Baptiste." Harry referred to the party to have attempted to secure Baptiste earlier. "You turned them down. Just because your family is a bunch of squibs doesn't mean you are exempt from the magical laws. I would tell you that you aren't exempt form muggle laws as well, but it would be rather redundant."

"We can make a deal. I have money. More money than you can imagine. Dark artifacts. Dealers. Names of my customers. There has to be something I can give you." Baptiste continued to beg.

Harry was almost insulted at being bribed. Again, he understood the man was grasping at straws in attempt to keep his life. But that didn't mean it wasn't insulting.

"Mr. Baptiste, I am not the man that gets sent to make deals." Harry said as he stood. "Threats and demands sometimes, but most assuredly not deals."

"Please." Baptiste still had minutes to live. If an ambulance could get to the location in three minutes, he may have been able to live. Without the use of his arm maybe, but he would live.

"Please, I have a family."

"Your victims had families too, Mr. Baptiste. In some cases you abducted entire families. Slaughtered them without conscience. It is because of those people we are here. I am the accumulation of your sins, Mr. Baptiste. The consequence of them anyway. Had you been a decent human-being, had you just lived honestly, instead of becoming the monster you are, they would not have sent an even worse monster for you." Harry raised his weapon, taking aim.

The smuggler meant to say something. An furious roar as the inevitable sunk in. Another plea in an attempt to reach Harry's mercy. Whatever is was didn't matter.

Before the words could escape him, Harry cut him off.

A single shot rang out, giving Baptiste a hole in the head he did not need.

The assignment was completed. Harry gave a passing look at the carnage. There were no signs of life. No swallow rising and falling of labored breathing. No crawling to take a shot at him. Even the strippers had managed to scurry away during the lull of the altercation.

Harry holstered his sidearm and redid his jacket. He cast the perfunctory cleaning charms on himself, including the _Tergeo_ to siphon the blood which may have accumulated on his shoes and clothes, before walking towards the exit. Once in his car, he checked his watch again.

9:02

"Well, shit." Harry cursed to himself as he pulled off. "I guess we're going to have to wait for the wine."

 **AN FINAL: So we finally get to see how jacked up Harry is. Opinions on the fight/combat scene is appreciated. I felt it was a tad bit repetitive. The final note of this chapter was a bit cheesy, but it was that way for a reason.**

 **I wanted to have Harry and Natasha's dinner date, but this chapter was already over 5k words, which I want to be the average for this story (if not around 4k). It's supposed to be short, but these are exposition chapters and are necessary.**

 **Let me know what you think about this Harry. Good? Bad? Holy-shit unbearable?**

 **Thanks to all the people who reviewed. I think I got to everyone, but if I didn't I apologize. I'll try to get to you next time. Or, if your review had a question PM me.**

 **Read, Review, Favorite, and Follow.**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Hope you guys like it. A whooping (for me anyway) 10,000 words. Possibly the largest chapter I have ever written.**

 **Songs for this chapter:**

 **Nick Jonas and Tov Lo – Close**

 **The Weeknd – the entire Trilogy Album**

 **WARNING: There is a lemon this chapter. A lemon that has been clearly marked. This story is Rated M for a reason. Again, CLEARLY MARKED LEMON AHEAD.**

 **XxXxXxXxXxXxX**

Natasha stared at the doorbell. The glowing orange light that harassed her, obnoxiously screaming a reminder of its function. A single press and the two-inch pristine oak door would pivot open and reveal her objective. Of all the assignments in the world, the task of just pushing the taunting button somehow felt akin to disabling a mercury-trigger attached to bricks of plastic explosives. Unlike defusing a bomb capable of wiping out an entire city block, the doorbell was an ordeal with consequences Natasha was not sure she was ready to deal with.

All the bravado she had felt on the phone a few hours ago disappeared like sand in a Level V hurricane. She would've sold her kidney for Clint's voice in her ear, feeding her data, and walking her through the situation until she reached some point that was within the realm of her expertise.

He was the people person, the one who played mediator between her and the other agents. And that was all without her caring what they thought. She did her job and did it well, what did it matter if they never invited her to join them on their coffee breaks.

But, Harry was different. He wasn't an assignment or another agent. Natasha cared about what he thought about her, enjoyed the times they had spent together. For two whole days of her entire life, Natasha had never felt so ordinary. Something she hadn't fathomed she would come to yearn for until she had been exposed to it.

There weren't people shooting at them. The world hadn't ended when she failed to sink the par on Hole 5 of put-put. Nothing violent had occurred, unless they counted the brief game of Whack-a-Mole, but even then no one got hurt. They were the best days she could remember in a long time.

However, cooking her dinner in his home was different. It was intimate. Personal. He was welcoming her into his inner most sanctum as a show of trust and affection. A metaphorical step up on their relationship ladder.

Natasha didn't know if she should. She wanted to. That was never in doubt. The feelings he instilled in her; warmth, comfort, and understanding were emotions she hadn't felt in a long time. At least, not in a romantic sense. She did have Clint, Laura, and their kids. But there was something different in being comforted by a lover – or possible lover in Harry's case – than a friend. It just meant more.

It occurred to her that she could just treat Harry as a mark. Twist and shift her own persona to match what he wanted and needed. She was already lying about who she was, what was taking that just one step further. It immediately solved her problem of who to be and completed the objective of keeping him.

But she didn't want to lie to him. Harry was so openly honest with her. He was himself. Natasha wanted to give him the same. She couldn't take back the lies she had already told, but the present was not yet written in stone. She still had the choice to return his measure of decency, something Natasha hadn't gotten from many people. Or gave for that matter.

The issue was how?

How could she be herself, be someone Harry needed and wanted, without revealing classified information? That was a closet full of so many skeletons it threatened to bury her and him if opened. And, for all his gentleness and compassion, there was no conceivable way for Harry to understand and accept someone with that much blood on their hands. It would have been unfair to expect as much. Too much for her to hope for.

Fed up with her practicality and emotions reenacting the Greeks and Persians in the Battle of Thermopylae, Natasha just pressed the doorbell.

She had no plan. No idea how to proceed. That left only one direction. Forward. Fear was never a reason for failure. It could be healthy. Life-saving even. But it was not an excuse to not strive for what she wanted. And Natasha knew what she wanted.

Her nerves stood on end as she heard the locks turning. Her ears picked up every scrape of the tumblers. Regardless of every fiber of her being panicking and screaming at her to run, Natasha stilled herself and forced the corners of her lips to curl into a small smile.

He was dressed in honor of his name. Black. It was similar to what he wore when they first met; a long sleeved shirt with the top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled just below the elbows, with slacks and leather oxfords. The variation was a vest that further highlighted the V-like slant of his back to his waist. It was familiar.

However, the more welcomed and all too familiar part of him that she appreciated was the look that greeted her. He stood at the precipice of his home with a face like Christmas morning; unadulterated happiness and kindness.

It lasted for a moment, but that was more than what Natasha needed to feel the prior tension flood out of her. That was the look she had come to crave, to find herself thinking about in the off hours of her day. The wanting smile of someone who thought she was a nobody, a regular woman with nothing to offer other than herself, and still delighted in seeing her.

Of course, that smile morphed into something different as his eyes brazenly roamed over her. Something more sensual and that caused for another sort of heat to trickle out of her. It put her at ease. Honest, decent emotions were confusing and somewhat unsettling. Lust and desire, those were aspects of the human psyche she knew how to deal with.

There had been a plan. A simple, but decent plan that Harry had whipped up on the entire drive home with the same mental intensity of devising a full-scale raid on the British Ministry of Magic. No longer an easy feat as they had undergone significant security upgrades since the demise of Voldemort.

All of which was thrown off the top of Hogwarts' Astronomy Tower when he opened the door to set it into effect.

She was a vision. The most delectable visual indulgence that his eyes devoured slowly and brazenly. He hadn't meant to gawk like a star-struck hormonal teenage boy, but Harry doubted any man would blame him.

Auburn red hair cascaded down just passed her shoulders in loose curls and framed the soft angles of a face that a modern-day Michelangelo could not have even fathomed of capturing. Her makeup was soft, accentuating rather than overwhelming her naturally captivating features.

A touch of gray eyeshadow and mascara to emphasize her smoky, sea green eyes. There was a small delicate blush on her cheeks that was so sparing, Harry couldn't decide if it was applied by a brush or natural. Plump, kissable, and inviting pink lips were bear. Not a trace of lipstick or gloss, just how Harry liked them. Nothing that would come between them. Should a time come when he could taste her, he would savor her and only her.

The most enticing physical aspect of her was the dress, or rather, what it did a poor job of concealing. A little black number with delicate, sheer lace that bordered a 'T' of a polyester-spandex blend. A façade of modesty that only teasingly covered the porcelain skin above her breasts and torso. It did little to hide her hourglass curves; the swell of her breast and deep dip at her waist that flared into wide hips.

It flowed into a loose, lightly frilled skirt that was like the perfect paragraph: long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to be interesting…very interesting. It was short enough that when the night air blew the softest of winds, he could catch a glimpse of the intricate lace patterns of the black stockings that lovingly embraced voluptuous thighs and calves made taut by three-inch heels.

Harry wetted his dry lips, contemplating on the right words to say. Greetings, compliments, and the like ran through his mind with the speed of a bullet train. Great writers and poets have used hundreds if not thousands of word combinations to describe beauty. But Harry didn't know any of them. Or, at least, his brain refused to take any effort from staring at Natasha to come up with something.

Needing to speak before the casual greeting he had intended, turned irreversibly awkward, Harry managed an inelegant, "Hi."

Natasha felt her smile turn softer, more genuine as Harry's eyes took her in. Satisfaction welled in her chest as his heated gaze travelled up and down her body. He was the reason she took the time to dress up. Chose something that impressed, teased, and seduced without crossing obnoxious and obvious. It pleased her to no end that it was working.

"Hi," She said purposely from underneath her long, thick lashes.

"You look lovely." Harry managed to say. His tongue had managed to unknot itself to get out more than a single syllable. It was a gross understatement as far as he was concerned.

"You clean up nicely too." Natasha's smile morphed into a grin. In the last few seconds, her mind had been busy at work both imagining and stopping her from thinking of him as a present. Impeccably wrapped with the true prize only available when it was torn off.

She took a moment, just another blink or two of the eyes, before morphing her grin from playful to teasing, "Are you going to invite me in? I'm not exactly dressed for the outdoors…as I'm sure you've noticed."

It was an easy shot. One that turned she took gratification in seeing his own face flush. A small redness on his face that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Yes, of course. Forgive me my lack of manners." He said, stepping well back into the house.

Natasha had plenty of room to maneuver. A large motorcycle wouldn't have had any issue getting through. There was no excuse for her to brush her chest past him as she entered, other than it pleased her to do so. The sparking tingle that shot up and down her spine as his eyes hooded ever-so-slightly.

Traces of her scent wafted through his nose as she passed him. A scent that was floral and made his body harden in expected, but growingly uncomfortable ways. Like a bloodhound, he almost followed that fragrance as it loomed steps away, but hunkered down.

The last thing he wanted was for her to think that she was a primarily physical attraction. She was beautiful and sexy, there was no denying it. And it would have been a lie that bordered the severity of perjury to say he had no interest in knowing her in as carnal and intimate a fashion as possible. But he did not want her to think that, that was all that was between them. Harry did not want her believing that physicality was all he was offering or good for.

Natasha gazed around the living room and was surprised to see that it was not as she envisioned it. Her initial guesses ranged between Spartan bachelor-pad, homely-domestic, or typical male fantasyland. She knew he could afford it. What greeted her was neither.

It was still warm, fine grains of vibrant wooden fixtures and a few pictures along the shelf above the unlit fireplace. There were only three picture frames, each a distinct motif.

The first was simple white wood, the picture inside depicting Harry and other men in desert fatigues and Level IV body armor surrounding a Viking BvS10 All-Terrain Vehicle while carrying the easily recognizable SA80 assault rifles. An expected picture from Clint's in-field debrief.

The middle was obviously made by a child. An endearingly glued together frame of popsicle sticks and puzzle pieces that contained the heads of mythical beasts. Inside was a picture of Harry with a young child with mousy brown eyes and equally brown eyes and a woman. It bothered Natasha much more than an innocent picture should.

Her hair was a long, wavy, and a soft light brown. She didn't look much older than Harry and had sharp patrician features. The haughty aristocratic look she could not doubt sport unerringly were discriminated against by a wide smile that touched the edges of even wider, softer eyes.

She was beautiful. With her big, generous smile, cheeks pressed against the little boy's hair and her head pressed against Harry. Looking at it, seeing how Harry was happy with her was a jab in her side. A reminder that she could never truly be that.

The reminder irked at her and so Natasha turned to the final frame; wooden, beveled, and darkly stained. It was a younger Harry, one of his adolescent years. He was flanked by a gangly redheaded boy and a kinky-haired brunette. Harry had his arms around both of them, their smiles wide, bright, and innocent.

The picture only captured their shoulders and above. But, from the cut of the cloth Natasha could have sworn they wore robes. Not too outlandish for some of the more traditionalist British schools. Oxford still had students wear robes and hats.

"Schoolmates of mine," Harry said, having made to stand shoulder to shoulder with her. "Ron and Hermione."

"You guys look close." Natasha said, gazing up at him.

"We were," Harry replied, looking down at her. "Almost inseparable when we were younger."

"What happened?" She asked. His expression, as it always was to her, was undefended. It was easy to see the traces of sadness and it was all she could do not to reach out and touch him. As if she could just erase it with gentle caress.

"We grew up," He shrugged his shoulders as if it didn't matter, "We grew up and I went one way and they another. They're both married, to each other, and have three children now."

"You guys still keep in touch?"

"Not as much as I'd like," Harry said to his own chagrin. "We see each other the odd day or so, but work keeps me busy. And, they have their own obligations."

Natasha dropped the subject. It was very unlike herself. She was always the one prodding, digging for the slightest bits of information. But she wasn't at work. Instead, she asked the question that had needled at her mind since she had seen it.

"What about them?" She pointed to the picture of the attractive woman and little boy.

She wasn't sure what she wanted the answer to be. It served purpose for her to be jealous. It certainly didn't make sense. And, yet, she found ugly blade-like feeling jabbing in her ribs.

"My godson Teddy. His father and mine were great friends in secondary school." Harry smiled fondly. "And that's his grandmother, who also happens to be my boss."

"Ah," Natasha nodded, feeling the brick floating in her stomach dissolve like antacid, "Typical old-world nepotism at work."

"I would be offended at that if it wasn't true." Harry laughed easily. It was true that Andromeda and he were products of nepotism. Just not in the traditional way he suspected Natasha thought.

"And here I was thinking you were impressive," Natasha playfully bumped his shoulder with her own, "but here you are laughing about riding your relative's coattails."

"I assure you, I am quite skilled in many areas." He smirked, barely pressing her shoulder against his chest as he peered down at her.

"Oh?" She returned his smirk with a coy grin, turning her body to face him. "What areas are those?"

"Well," Harry took a step to straighten towards her, fractions of an inch separating them, "I did invite you for dinner."

Not exactly what Natasha was hoping for, but that had been the reason for her visit. Taking a mini-step forward, their bodies a breath away from being pressed against each other, Natasha gave him a moment to reconsider skipping straight to dessert. Or at least a small appetizer. When he didn't move, she cast aside her mild disappointment. Cocking her hip, Natasha waved magnanimously, "Lead the way."

Harry was finding it difficult to breath around her. The scent of her filled him with every breath and caused blood to rush through his veins. Her curled lips called to him, invited him to just bend his neck ever so slightly and savor them. It was only fear of ruining a good thing that stopped him.

Moronic, Harry knew. Ruining a good thing with a kiss. However, stranger things had happened to him. This was not one of those times that he would chance messing it up.

He placed a hand at her lower back, low enough to not be mistaken for platonic, but high enough to be considered decent, and led her from the living room towards the kitchen. Harry pulled out a stool from under the counter that separated the kitchen and dining room, holding his hand out.

"Aren't you a gentleman?" Natasha smiled, taking Harry's hand daintily and allowing him to help her position on the stool.

"Only to people I like." Harry easily retorted, his thumb giving a light caress of her slender fingers. "Would you care for a glass of wine while you wait?"

"Only if you'll join me." She said, enjoying the feel of his hand in hers. It was chaste, almost platonic. Yet, a simmering fire still flowed up her arm, into her chest, and made Natasha subtly squeeze her thighs together.

Harry walked backwards, reluctant to let go of the hand like they were attached by a Sticking Charm. It was the reality that they were in fact not charmed together and gravity, that had him letting go and fetching what he had offered.

Once the wine was distributed in generous portions, a cliché clinking of glasses before their first sips, they lapsed in a comfortable silence. Harry busied himself to ready the meal he had promised and Natasha both observing and reveling in the ordinariness that she only felt when around him.

If Harry hadn't said he was an accountant – of a sort – and Clint hadn't verified it, Natasha would have no problem believing Harry a chef. He smoothly moved around his kitchen, damn near gliding from stove to the counter where his ingredients were and back again. There were no measuring utensils, everything done by feel, sight, and smell. And as the aroma filed the kitchen, Natasha knew Harry was well-versed in what he was doing.

"Looks like you've done this and time or two." She said, breaking the illusory silence that had separated them from the outside world.

"I've cooked it quite a few times." He acknowledged.

"And how many of those times have been to dazzle the women in your home?" She playfully laughed.

"Which one?" Harry grinned over his shoulder, "How many women? Or women in my home?"

"Both." Natasha said, suddenly very interested in how many women he had charmed with his, non-euphemistically, 'entire package'.

"Well," Harry looked at the ceiling in mocking contemplation, "there was that company picnic two years ago. There had to be at least fifty."

Natasha rolled her eyes with a humorous snort. She knew, he knew that was not what she meant. But as he was comfortable to play with her, she took it as an overall victory. "And the other?"

"None." Was his brief reply, a moment of stillness in him before he smiled at her and resumed as if nothing had happened.

That early brick in Natasha's stomach returned as a cinderblock. It was something she both wanted and dreaded to hear.

A whispering voice in the back of her head informed her that the night had gone from a casual attempt to lure him closer to her through tantalization and temptation, to one where she was setting the benchmark. She was metaphorically taking his virginity. And the pressure Natasha placed on herself threatened to crush her like a car-compacter.

Simultaneously, a sizeable fragment of her that took pride in being his first, bathed in the wicked considerations. In truth, he was her first too. Not in the sense of dinner or being in someone's home, but that she was doing it out of choice, rather than duty. The realization that their unique intimacy was shared had her heart in palpitations.

Natasha bit on the inside of her bottom lip. She didn't want to channel her bow-wielding friend and say something inane in attempt to cut through the tension between them as such a revelation. Harry had put himself out in the open. Exposed himself to her. It only made sense to take the shot. She just had to wait for the suitable conditions.

He felt slightly foolish revealing such information to a woman he was trying to impress. Harry supposed her could play it off later as meaning she was the first woman he had ever cooked for in his current abode, but it would have been a blatant and unneeded lie. A lie to sooth his ego for seeming like such an amateur when it came to dating.

Yet, that was the truth of it. Always the groomsman, but never the groom. A few dates where women liked the look of him or what he offered, but couldn't not fathom what he truly was or wanted. Perhaps it was unfair to expect there to be someone like that, but that hadn't stopped Harry from not settling.

And now, there was one. A woman he found mind-blowingly attractive, effortlessly sensual, and could understand that time did not heal all wounds. Someone who enjoyed him, took what he gave, and was satisfied. If it was a dream, Harry never wanted to wake up. Just float effortlessly into the pretense.

Their meal was done. Turning off the heat, he grabbed a carving fork, serving spoon, and two plain white ceramic bowls. Taking great care to give equal portions, he twirled the pasta into glistening, spiral towers.

"Would you like the eat here or in the dining room?" Harry asked, bowls in hand.

Natasha ran the scenarios, the pros and cons, through her mind at a speed that would make a supercomputer envious.

 _Dining room: a formal setting with an table between them. It did present an opportunity for more orthodox teasing, such as running her stocking-clad foot up his leg. Obvious. There would be no question as to her intention, but unnatural and could bring question to her motives. Target was rich, possibly used to conventional techniques._ Natasha assessed the first scenario, before quickly switching to the other.

 _Kitchen counter: casual, far more intimate in consideration. Would put target at ease. Less spatial separation, but lack of availability for surprise physical contact. Relaxed ambiance would lower inhibitions._ There really was only one choice in her mind.

"Here's fine." She smiled effortlessly.

"Splendid." Harry beamed, carefully sliding her bowl towards her. The dining room was beautiful, but Harry seldom dined there. It was too spacious, reminding him of how empty his house was.

"Bon appetite." He said, hands tense on the counter as he scanned Natasha's facial features. He waited with bated breath as her fork scrapped against ceramic, twirling the glisten noodles.

He stood hypnotized as her eyes locked with his own. Her lips parted and wrapped around the silver implement. As soon as the food touched her tongue, a long moan emitted from the back of her throat. A sound that had his pants tightening to the point of madness.

"So glad you like it." He said behind grit teeth and a smile so tight it hurt his face.

Natasha basked in the low, husky tone. The food was unquestionably good. A masterfully done recipe that was a better sum than its parts. She enjoyed it, but that wasn't even a tenth of the reasoning behind it. That was to see the look on Harry's face. The blatantly lustful glaze that glossed over his eyes and washed over her like molten fire.

Harry pointed focused on his food, pressing himself closer to the counter to hide the evidence of his evident arousal. He could not tell for sure, but he heavily suspected she was deliberately trying to have him break through his zipper. Physically impossible, but Harry would swear that he was about to prove that incorrect.

Pheromones and hormones permeated the air around them; lust, want, and desire covering them like a shower of pollen. Natasha ceased moaning, but made a show of looking up at him while hollowing her cheeks to slurp the noodles. Harry attempted to play it cool and nonchalant, but was about to put a dent in his kitchen cabinets.

"You know, I don't get you." Natasha cut through the tension.

Harry raised a brow, setting aside his empty bowl and fork before leaning closer to her on his elbows. "Oh? Is that a bad thing?"

"Intriguing." She corrected.

He mirrored her movements, leaning in as close as he was able with two-feet of marble between them. "I'm fairly simple. What is it you don't get?"

"Well, you're successful, handsome, yet, you're still single."

"Not that I'm not flattered by the compliments," He grinned, "but I didn't hear a question."

"What's wrong with you?"

Harry scoffed a snigger. "I just don't date much."

"No," Natasha shook her head, sitting up straight and crossing her arms. Her eyes squinted, examining him like a mysterious artifact. "I'm not buying that. Guy like you? The dating pool is endless."

"It's true." Harry returned her skepticism with a shrug. To escape her searching gaze, he gathered the finished remains of their meal and headed towards the sink.

"That can't be all." She said, moving to her feet and tracing his steps.

He paused, the running water clearing almost all of the soap he had put on the sponge. The answer was simple really. So simple it was difficult to explain.

"Are you dying?"

His head jerked over his shoulder so quickly, Harry was surprised he hadn't heard a crack. "What? No! What would ever give you that idea?"

"Do you have PTSD?" She continued in her attempts to pinpoint what was so odd about him.

"Hardly." Harry rolled his eyes. "There were some things I did in Afghanistan that I won't brag about, but I never harmed someone who wasn't a viable harm to myself or others. Nothing to lose sleep over."

"So what is it?" Her back was the to the sink, her arm pressed up against his own, as she stared at him searchingly.

He placed the dishes upon the dish rack before walking away. Harry could still feel her gaze on him as he dried his hands, burning a hole in the back of his head. As if all his secrets would come spilling out if she just stared hard enough.

"I don't care much for happiness." He sighed, turning back to look at her. "Most people want that elation, they scourge for it like addicts. I don't and there aren't many people who can appreciate that."

It was an odd answer. Even for Natasha, who had been bracing herself for something much worse. That was why she couldn't put her finger on it before. She had been searching for something extreme and his answer was inanely simple. "What do you want then?"

"Contentment." Harry sighed longingly, eyes closed as if he was imagining the peace he craved wash over him. He allowed himself just a breath to picture, pretend to feel the tranquility before walking towards Natasha.

"I want to be with someone who can appreciate the lesser and simpler things in life. A walk in the park on a summer day, curling up on the couch by the fire reading a book in the winter. Dinners at home instead of fancy restaurants. Someone who is fine with just being with me, no words needing to be spoken because the silence wouldn't be awkward."

Breathe. Natasha had to remind herself to breathe as he smoothly glided towards her. She managed short and shallow breaths, her heart thumping deeply in her ears. He stalked towards her, face serene, but gait predatory. Like an animal who hunted for the thrill rather than need. But there was no voice telling her to run. It was silent.

Natasha understood him. Finally, she understood that nagging tingle at the base of her spine. They were the same. They both just wanted to be normal. Jude and Ward Cleaver normal.

So, no, Natasha wasn't going to run. Because she wasn't prey. With her back to the counter, Harry's arms trapping either side of her, she had nowhere to go. She had him right where she wanted him. Close, ensnared, and focused solely on her.

"I can live with that." Natasha said, fingers tracing along the lapel of Harry's vest. Her hands felt numb, her mind shrieking at her to slow down, but she wasn't having any of it. It was just her fear, the uncertainty, and Natasha had stopped listening to it. No need to start again.

 **LEMON BEGIN**

Slender delicate fingers played at his buttons, twiddling them to and fro. Harry waited with bated breath. There would be no mistaking her intentions as soon she slide those plastic pieces through their slits. There would be no more reason for Harry to question or stop himself.

The vest came easily undone. Natasha pressed her hands against the muscles of his torso, delighting in the hardness of his muscles against her fingers as she moved them up towards his chest. She could not wait to feel the skin beneath his shirt crowded against her own. With a patience she did not feel, Natasha slowly pulled the vest off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

The soft delicate piece of fabric hitting the floor may as well have been a starter pistol to Harry's ears. Because whatever logic he had within him, whatever dam of self-discipline he had, burst open.

He closed the distance between their lips like a snake, pressing them tightly together. She was as soft, warm, and sweet as he had imagined. So inviting he wanted to never not know the feeling again. He savored the touch of her flesh against his as if it was going to be the last thing he ever felt.

She couldn't breathe. No matter how much Natasha attempted to calm herself, to remain in control of her senses, her brain was on auto-pilot. And the only thing that she was concerned with was having more of Harry.

The way he devoured her stole her breath away. Threw training and reason out the door with prejudiced. When his hands moved from the counter to her thighs, it was like fire shot through her stockings and unto her skin. As they skimmed higher and closer to the apex, the question of readiness for the situation joined logic and reason as wetness saturated her.

Long, tapered fingers traced at the rim of her black lingerie before shifting them to the side. She was already unsteady in her heels, but when a single digit toyed at her petals, skillfully parting them ever so slightly, her knees trembled and threatened to buckle. He hadn't even done anything yet and already she could feel pleasure looming to overtake her.

The heat that radiated off of Natasha had Harry aching to just get to it. She was more than ready for him. He could have fully embraced himself within her wet warmth in a single stroke. Yet, he could not resist teasing her, coaxing more soft sounds that were music to his ears.

Natasha tore their lips apart, no matter how much it almost physically pained her to do so, and bit down on Harry's neck. The pliant flesh against her teeth providing some measure of ease from the havoc running through her system like electricity. "You're killing me here, Harry."

"The feeling is more than mutual." His husky voice strummed through her ear. She let him take her hand in his, feeling the smooth leather of his belt, skimming the silken fabric of his slacks, before settling…she bit her lip at their destination.

She liked the averageness of Harry. It was what drew her to him in the first place. However, there was one part of him that was decidedly above-average.

Her teeth clenched at her bottom lip, one of her moans exchanged for one of his own when she ran her palm over the pulsing swell of him. She hadn't exactly been patient, but the feel of him brought that little patience to an end. Natasha wanted him inside of her.

Harry's eyes widened ever so slightly in shock as Natasha attacked at his belt. She tugged at it, unfastening the apparently offending piece of leather and jerking his belt through its loops like a whip, sending it wherever it was destined to land. He nibbled at her neck as his own hands fiddled with the hinge and zipper contraption hindering him from viewing her in glorified nakedness.

Not waiting for the zipper to reach the bottom, Harry ripped Natasha's hands off him, but only to slide her dress down her body. She had gotten the idea shimmed the article of clothing off fast, kicking it as well as his vest to parts uncared about.

On his knees, Harry was greeted with the sight of the lace embroidered stockings the air had only given a peak of before. He was drawn in, called to plant his lips at where lace and skin clashed. The heat emitting from her scorched his cheeks, made him only want to dive further in.

Natasha almost collapsed as Harry's lips and tongue caressingly travelled up her thigh. If it wasn't for her hands finding the counter behind her, she very well may have. When he nuzzled against the fabric of her panties, she knew he could feel the dampness that clung and seeped through. And when he gave a teasing lick, she hissed out an unintelligible curse. Growling to herself and the arousal Harry caused to rip through her, Natasha chanced a look down.

The spectacle was maddening. It was impossible not to notice that Harry was still mostly dressed, while she was in nothing but the bare essentials. Not a fair scenario in her case. He was having his fill of her, yet she had barely gotten the chance to take his shirt off. On the opposite end of the spectrum, the look of utter hunger that spread across his face, the enjoyment he took in her legs shivering, made it a double-edged sword to pull him off.

"I want to taste you." He said, the words bouncing off her legs before soaring to her ears. It wasn't so much a request as it was an announcement. Harry wanted to run his tongue up, down, in, and around her pussy until she quaked, quivered, and screamed.

She saw his fingers curled around the elastic band at her hips. Natasha could feel them scrap against her hips and it took all of her decidedly fleeting strength to resist letting Harry do what they both wanted him to. Her hand flew from the counter to grip his hair and forced him to look at her.

"Enough," she swallowed past the lump in her throat.

Harry stared, following her motions for him to stand. Before a word could be said, Natasha's hands gripped at his shirt and flew through all of his buttons.

"I didn't say 'stop'," Natasha ripped his shirt over his shoulders, her voice octaves just higher than a growl, "But…enough foreplay. I want you inside me. Shoes, shirt, and pants. Off. Now."

Not being one to argue. Harry flung his shirt off his body, kicked off his shoes and socks, and let gravity take his pants. He watched as she did the same, denying him the privilege of ripping off her panties or sliding them down with his teeth. There were certainly ideas for other times though.

She undressed herself as quickly as he did. Eyes never leaving him. His body was far more impressive than his clothes gave him credit for. Hard muscles peppered by short, terse hairs at his chest before traveling down, giving credence to the term 'happy trail', and a smattering of scars. He exuded an ancient masculinity the belied his civilized persona. Gasoline to the fire already threatening to consume her.

When her bra was unsnapped, Harry's mouth watered. Breasts as pale and perfect as the rest of her. He reached out, cupping them and marveling at how they spilled into his hands so perfectly. Lowering his mouth to the other, his tongue lazed out, slowly lavishing a light pink areola before sucking its tight nipple into his mouth.

Natasha sighed. Her nails dug into his scalp as she cradle him against her breast. Each flick of his tongue sent a jolt through her system. She reached beneath them, spare fingers finding the hardness she craved covered by sporting boxer briefs. It was the only thing getting in her way.

Harry trailed languid, open-mouthed kissed between her cleavage, before nibbling at her bare throat. He just couldn't get enough. The silk of her stocking slid up his leg. He grasped greedily at the muscles along her calves and thighs, before sinking his fingers into her ass. Harry clutched at her, drawing her so close the sweltering dampness between her legs stained his underwear. He growled, relishing in satisfaction at the evidence of her yearning.

In place and balanced, Natasha hooked her heel into the band of her last obstruction. Harry hissed against her neck, nipping firmly as it etched at his side. She was unprotected, all the vital parts of her out in the open, and Natasha didn't care.

All that mattered was pulling down his underwear. When she had managed to maneuver the form fitting material around him and unto the floor, she used the leg wrapped around him to jerk Harry towards her. He really was her present and all the wrapping was peeled off.

There was nothing that separated them then. Not a stitch of clothing aside from her heels and stockings. It only amplified her sex appeal. As if that were possible. The image was enough to have him straining to the point of pain and there was only one possible remedy.

She took a hold of him, her fingers light and coaxing up towards the head and down to the short crisp hairs at the base. Natasha could feel his heartbeat thump in her palm. Her legs shifted wider, straddling him as they stood. She guided him to the trimmed triangle of auburn, sliding the tip along the wetness that he had triggered.

"Natalie…" Harry groaned, his forehead pressing against hers with eyes hooded. They wanted to close at the surge that shot straight from one head to the other, but didn't. He didn't want to miss a thing. Not one single moment.

"Natalia." She swallowed past the lump in her throat, word laced with her native accent. It shouldn't have been possible. To expose more of herself than her nakedness already did. But, she wanted to share that with him in the moment of the truth between them. Because there was nothing more honest than how much they wanted each other. "Say my real name. Natalia."

The defenselessness of her proclamation floored him. The trust she gave him to reveal something that must have been incredibly personal. Harry had never felt as innately close to anyone as he did to her at the moment. He repeated her name, the Slavic accent rolling off his tongue with an profound ease, "Natalia."

His declaration of a name no one else used touched Natasha in ways she could not fathom. Husky and filled with promises that would fuel many of her midnight thoughts. She did the only thing that she could do. Grasping at Harry's neck with one hand, her leg tightening around his hip, Natasha drew him inside of her. She shuddered and sighed raggedly as he sank deep within her one slow, torturous inch at a time.

Harry groaned as Natasha pulled him inside of her. She was wet, warm, and wondrously welcoming. Pure pleasure assaulted him, disabled his senses. He hissed as she gripped at him, his fingers squeezing at her ass tighter. In his blurred bliss, Harry met Natasha half way through, thrusting himself completely inside her heat. He growled when she cried out his name. There was nothing better to a man than knowing he was satisfying a woman.

His long, slow, deep thrusts wrecked her. She was filled to the brink. Stretched in such a perfect way that she could take no more if she tried, but wasn't uncomfortable. Natasha buried her face into Harry's neck, sucking and nibbling roughly at the skin there, unable to do anything else but hold herself and allow Harry to take her.

"Harder, baby." She muttered past gritted teeth.

Harry took his instruction to heart, grabbing at her hips and driving himself forward with an intensity that shook their bodies. He drew from his lustful passion of her, allowed it to fuel him. And, it was potent. He wasn't going to stop until her throat was hoarse from screaming in pleasure. Until all his neighbors knew his name.

Natasha reach behind her, clutching at the counter like a lifeline as he grew forceful. She flexed her arms, pushing forward every time he thrust and dragging herself off his length every time he retreated. He grasped and pawed at her breast, nipple twisting between his fingers, as they shook with their exertion. His grunts and groans as he took her made Natasha's stomach grow tighter than a overwound spring that was at jeopardy of…

Too late.

"Fuck…I'm coming." Was what she managed to get out, a breathy long sentence that faded to drawn out whimpers and moans. In the next second, both her legs were off the ground and wrapped around his hips, pulling him until he nearly slammed into the cabinets.

Harry settled Natasha on the counter, but didn't stop. She quivered and flooded against him, making it easier to crash his hips into the malleable flesh of her thighs. The entire time she twitched, squeezed, clawed, and even pounded her fists against his back. She was so unbridled, so unrestrained, Harry abandoned himself to the same. It wasn't long after, Natasha still twisting and contorting, when Harry grunted, burying himself to the hilt before letting off several, powerful volleys.

Her lungs couldn't decide if breathing or moaning was more important. When he spurted his fever inside of her, moaning was all she could do. The rapid pulsing of him, swelling and contracting, she was nearly out of her mind, her white-vision barely fading back into color from her own orgasm.

Yet, as weak as she felt, her legs had a mind of their own as they refused to release Harry.

"That was incredible." Harry breathed deeply, nuzzling Natasha's nose before capturing her lips in between his.

"Does that mean you'll respect me in the morning?" She nipped at him.

"Will you make me breakfast?" He retorted.

The implication wasn't lost on Natasha. She didn't hesitate to nod, not trusting her tongue not to betray her. "But, the night is still young. What will we do until breakfast?"

"I'm sure we can think of something if we put our minds together." Harry lavished her collarbone with his tongue and teeth.

"Well, I do have a thought," She moaned at his attention, "That is, if you're _up_ for it."

It did not take a genius to get what she was getting at. His hands on one of his favorite parts of her body, Harry lifted her off the counter and twirled them around. "I shall endeavor not to be found wanting."

"See than you shan't." She playfully mocked him, mimicking his accent.

"Bedroom?" He asked.

Natasha tilted her head, a wicked smile on her lips.

"We'll get there eventually."

 **LEMON END**

 **XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX**

It was the most restful sleep Harry had gotten in a long time. A deep slumber, that while short, allowed him pleasant dreams.

Most days, it was the ringing clang of his alarm clock or telephone that woke him. Reminded him that it was just another day in his life. But on that morning, it was the gentle warmth of the sun that peaked through his blinds that had Harry's eyes slowly peel open.

His body was stiff and sore in the best of ways. He could hardly complain about the discomfort when his aches stemmed from sating his lover. And, true to Natasha's prediction, they had made it to the bedroom. Eventually. Barely.

Harry languidly turned, arm stretched searching for the warm body that had collapsed beside him early into the morning. His eyes shot open when he touched emptying, cooling sheets. He darted up and quickly searched his surroundings.

Not a trace of her. Nothing other than trickle of warmth under his palm and the scent of her clinging to his pillows.

He let out a short snort, shaking his head at the naivety of his morning thoughts. The hope that she would still be there, ready and willing to engage in another bout. Or, at least extended post-coital bliss.

Harry felt idiotic. Like a teenage girl in those cheesy teeny-bopper romance movies who after recklessly giving her virginity to the High School Dreamboat, asks if he's going to call. He had been reckless. Rash. Too caught up in the moment.

A light echo that rebounded from within his house put Harry's pity party on hold. Someone was in his home. A tiny part of his brain sparked that it may have been Natasha. It made the most logical sense. Robbers didn't typically do breaking-and-entering in the morning and the Anti-Apparation and Anti-Portkey wards hadn't been set off.

Ensuring his alarm clock wouldn't ring, he slid out of bed and slowly slid a drawer open. If it was burglars, no need to have them aware to him being awake. Putting on a pair of pajama bottoms, Harry heel-toed swiftly and silently down towards living room.

His ears perked up at the bottom of the stairs. Taking slow, deep breaths Harry attempted to discern the noises. Not only where, but possibly how many. His mind was already going through the scenarios; best route, plan of attack, and excuses to give to the police should he have to permanently incapacitate anyone.

Not detecting any other presence than that in his kitchen, he crept along the wall. What greeted him, floored him. Assuaged any lurking doubts that hid in the dark recesses of his brain.

Natasha stood in front of the stove spatula in hand with multiple pans sizzling with eggs, bacon, and French toast. Her eyes immediately caught him as he highlighted himself against the open doorway. She greeted him with nothing but a smile and his black long-sleeve. A shirt that was only held together by a single button, revealing the pale, tempting flesh that he had copiously explored well into the morning. Warm skin that he was still tempted to take between his teeth in sucks and nibbles.

"Hey," She gave a small wave of the spatula, "was I too loud?"

"No," Harry replied, stuffing his raging libido back into its cage. Honestly, he was surprised her movements getting out of bed hadn't woken him. Then again, he had been completely knackered. "I was due to wake up soon. No rest for the fiscally wicked."

"Yeah, I'm an early riser too." Natasha laughed, flipping the French Toast then the bacon. "I hope you don't mind, but I did say I would cook you breakfast."

"So you did." Harry could only smile, hearing her parrot back words he had spoken only hours ago. He leaned against the doorframe, content to merely gaze on her. The scene was something Harry did not think he would ever tire of.

"You want to put on coffee? Or are you too much of a traditionalist?" Natasha lightheartedly asked, intimately familiar with the implication of his dark, hooded stare. She was sorely tempted. Emphasis on sorely. But her stomach overpowered another part of her anatomy.

Harry shook his head and walked passed her towards the cabinets, stopping only long enough to plant a kiss on her cheek. That she had subconsciously tilted her head and rose on her toes to meet him hit him in the gut like a bullet. He was glad their backs were to each other, lest he blind her with the grin that was dangerously close to splitting his face apart.

Natasha was basking in domestic bliss. A night of hot sex that had left her lower body too sore to operate the pedals of her car, waking up next to her lover, and slipping into casual, homely morning absolutions that Harry took in stride. All she needed was an apron and a pearl necklace and Natasha could play a convincing Jude Cleaver.

She felt Harry come behind her, setting a stovetop espresso maker on the free burner. His hardness pressed against her, pushing her against the handle of the stove. She stood up straighter, giving her hips a small shift to rub against him, "That a morning thing or me?"

"That's all you luv." He growled into her ear, sending shivers up her spine. Again, very tempting. But needs must. She spun on under his arm, giving him a grin as she grabbed plates.

"The food will get cold." Natasha said, placing them on the same counter they had eaten dinner on. "Plus, I'm still a little sore from previous…activities."

Harry gave a deep, heaving sigh from his nose at her purr. So much for keeping his libido in check. "Yes, of course. I'll just get the paper."

He about-faced, waiting a step or two before chancing a glance back at Natasha. When he was sure she wasn't looking, Harry adjusted himself. Having a seductress in his home did have down-sides. Well, not really down…

The cold morning air helped with his…issue. Not completely, but it did remarkably well in place of an ice-bath. He walked to the end of his drive way at picked up the plastic wrapped newspaper.

"Good morning, Harry!" He turned to see his neighbors, clad in bathrobes with coffee mugs in hand.

They were an elderly couple. The man a plumber and the woman a high school teacher with no criminal history, aside from a few moving violations and parking tickets.

Yes, he had run a background check on the neighborhood.

The funny thing was Harry didn't remember ever formally meeting them, let alone telling them his name.

An embarrassing heat exploded across his face, warring with the smugness in his chest. He gave the nice couple a tight smile and robotic wave. They just stood there and smiled knowing smiles, occasionally blocking the white of their teeth with his and hers mugs.

For some reason, he was unable to break eye contact. As the awkwardness mounted, Harry beat a hasty retreat. He had made it to the steps before he heard the older woman's voice cry out, "You make sure you tell that Natalia what a lucky girl she is."

Harry just moved faster, nearly slamming the door shut in his haste to get it closed. For unknown reasons, he spun the locks and chained the door shut. It didn't do much, but it did make him feel a little better.

A full plate of breakfast was waiting for him when he got back to the kitchen. Natasha had just found his coffee mugs, holding two in between her fingers and the espresso pot in hand, when she twirled to smile at him. "You're really close with your neighbors."

"You heard that huh?" He scratched at his neck.

"I think the entire street heard her." She said, setting down his cup and nodding at him to sit down.

"This is the first time I've spoken to them." Harry admitted bashfully.

It took Natasha less than a second to process that information. She supposed she should be embarrassed. But, she wasn't. Natasha didn't think they were being that loud or obnoxious, but her full attention had been on other things at the time.

Besides, she didn't understand what there was to be embarrassed about. If the couple had been grumpy about being kept up all night, then Natasha would have felt mildly contrite. As they weren't, she wasn't the least bit ashamed at any and all sounds related to their passionate night together. If she had her way, they were going to be having plenty more.

"One sugar or two?"

Harry was pleasantly surprised Natasha hadn't flown off the handle. Not that he expected her too, but people had weirder reactions to simpler things. What was a little light teasing between generations; he planned on having Teddy attempt to bury his head between his shoulders when the young man finally got a girlfriend.

"Two please."

Natasha dropped two cubes of sugar into his cup, followed by a spoon before placing the marbled surface between them. Probably a good idea.

Harry pulled the funny section of the newspaper, leaving the rest to rot before he threw it out later. He knew the world was messed up. Harry had no want or need to read about it first thing in the morning.

"Do you mind if I take the current events?" She sipped at her coffee.

"Please do." Harry said, making no effort to slide the paper.

Natasha grinned, knowing his game. She made a show of leaning over, giving him an eyeful of teasing cleavage as she reached across the countertop. "Thank you."

"My pleasure." He smirked, cutting bite sized pieces of his toast.

"I'm sure." She grinned right back, before deliberately flipping the paper wide open to cover herself. It tickled at her when Harry grumbled.

All the of Natasha's ecstasy at their simple human interaction drained from her. Her teasing had been deliberate, but it was also fortunate. She didn't have to worry about seeing her slip at the headline.

Massacre in Little Tokyo.

Calmly, careful not to ignore her coffee, Natasha scoured the front page story. Eight dead, one of which was wanted by Interpol for international smuggling and trafficking. Police looking for unidentifiable man in black as a possible suspect. There wasn't much to read, aside from the reporter's conjecture. Estimations that would change as the case went federal or international, depending on who won the jurisdiction battle.

She wasn't too concerned with the target. The misfortune that landed upon the smuggler and his crew couldn't have happened to more deserving people. Okay, there were more deserving people, but that didn't change her argument.

What did bother Natasha was SHIELD's lack of intel. The smuggler, Baptiste, wasn't rated high enough of a threat to demand SHIELD's attention. He was a mild-level. If Baptiste had been transporting nuclear materials, that would have been a different story.

It was the assassin that drew her attention. An unidentifiable assassin that performed a frontal assault at seven-to-one odds, casually drove off in a black European sedan, and all in under three minutes. It screamed professional hit. Ballsy and reckless, but still someone with a high level of skills.

"Anything interesting?" Harry asked, curious as she hadn't move aside from the occasional sip of coffee.

"Hmmm," She gave a noncommittal sound, before dropping the paper on the counter. If what had happened was important enough, Natasha had no doubt that Director Fury would bring it to their attention. There were plenty of assignments on SHIELD's radar. She had much better things to do in her spare time than add to her workload.

"You okay, luv?"

The concern on his face was touching. She reached across the cold surface, grasping his hand made even warmer by the hot mug. "Yeah. I'm fine. Someone just decided to cut a bunch of criminals' vacation short. Permanently."

"Hmmm," Harry nodded, "and you feel sorry for them?"

"Not per say," She weighed her words carefully, "but I think guys like that should be in jail. Made to pay for their crimes."

"Sometimes the only price for evil deeds is death." Harry said, before quickly adding, "as history has shown us."

"You don't believe in rehabilitation? Redemption?" The toast she chewed around suddenly tasted like dirt. It was thick against her throat, pressing against the lump of bated breath.

Redemption? He refused to be like Dumbledore in that regard. Harry wasn't going to hand out 'Redemption Tickets' like a pedophile did candy. He did not believe in restoration of morality as Harry had grown to learn it. Because of all the roads in life, true redemption was the most arduous and least walked. That didn't mean he believed it wasn't possible, that should someone truly want to change they couldn't. He was living proof that a person could change.

"I believe," Harry started slowly, setting aside his newspaper and giving Natasha his full attention, "I believe that real redemption requires the utmost sincere repentance. That a person can only walk so far into the abyss before climbing out is near impossible."

"So, you think it is possible?" Natasha asked, doing her best to telepathically pull the answer she wanted from him. She didn't think she could bear any other. Not while staying with him.

"So long as the will or reason is strong enough," Harry shrugged, "I don't see why not."

Her heart climbed out of throat and settled itself in its rightful place at her chest. She calmly and slowly exhaled the breath she had been holding through her nose. Harry hadn't just unknowingly kicked her out of his life. Natasha felt almost boneless at the relief.

"What time do you have to go to work?" She changed the subject. Bringing up any sort of philosophical queries around Harry was dangerous to her heart, as she was starting to learn.

"In about an hour or so." Harry said, glancing at the clock over his shoulder.

"Me too." Not exactly true, but Natasha was sure that Clint would be ringing her cellphone as soon as his kids went to school. Talking about her 'date' with Harry while around him would probably make him uncomfortable. "I should probably get ready."

"You can shower first if you'd like." Harry offered. "I'll take care of the dishes."

"Okay." Natasha said, confused. Her offer had been out there, if albeit unspoken. With a furrow in her brow she walked past him. She hardly made it three steps before deciding to give it one more try. "You do know that California is going through a drought, right?"

"Um," Harry started, unsure of where the question had come from or how to answer it. "I have heard about it passing."

"Want to help the planet?" She unbuttoned the shirt of his she wore, allowing it to part open.

Harry was right. She really was wearing nothing under his shirt. He didn't think he would ever look at his clothes the same way again. "I thought you were…sore?"

"I heal fast." Natasha shrugged, turning and walking towards the stairs. A quick glance over her shoulder saw Harry not far behind.

He traced her steps slowly, unashamedly enjoying the spectacle of her walking up the steps. The excitement-based hardness he had sported earlier was back with a vengeance. Her seductively promising glance over her shoulder as she dropped his shirt on the stairs and entered the bathroom did not help matters.

He knew he should be shouldn't be distracted. He really did have to be at work soon. He did have to file his report first thing in the morning, with details that could only be shared over a VOIP phone encrypted by a KG-117D.

But when Natasha popped her head around the bend, coyly hiding her body, Harry cared much less about his meeting. He considered phoning in that he would be late. Baptiste wouldn't be any less dead if he was. And Harry could probably get away with being late to work once.

"Coming, Harry?" She asked with a soft chuckle. If she kept it up, he undoubtedly would be.

Merlin the woman was going to get him in trouble one day.

He could feel it in his bones.

Harry wouldn't have it any other way.

 **XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX**

 **AN: Sorry this chapter took so long. It was supposed to be up a week ago, but upon revision…I hated it. So, I tried to Dr. Frankenstein it. A fix in a paragraph here, a fix there. And, I still hated it. So, I scrapped the entire thing and started from scratch. This chapter was it.**

 **The lemon was a pain in the ass to write because I was trying for a more Romance Novel vibe rather than straight erotica. There is too much poorly written and executed smut out there. Not that there is anything wrong with smut or erotica. I'm more focused on the poorly written and executed. Hopefully this does not fall into those categories.**

 **Let me know what you think now that it all is starting to come together.**

 **Special thanks to momter, who has helped me smooth out the direction of this story.**

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	6. Chapter 6

**AN: Special thanks to Kingofclubs8129 for BETAing. Also, special thanks to Primordial Knight and momter for throwing around ideas with me. They have all been a big help. Check out their profiles and stories.**

 **AN2: Thank you all for reviewing/favoriting/following. CHAPTER 1, 2, and 3 have been BETA'd and reposted.**

 **AN3: Natasha will be referred to in the story as 'Natasha'. In conversation she may be referred to as 'Natalie/Natalia', but for your ease, I just put her in as Natasha in the general context of the story.**

 **~Cheers**

 **Jin**

 **XXXXXXXXXXXX**

 **6 Months Later…**

Cloud nine.

That was the only way Harry could describe life at home. One-hundred-and-eighty days, give or take, of untainted domestic bliss. A span of time so perfect, not even in his wildest dreams could he have conjured anything better.

It had started easily enough. The weeks it had taken for Harry and Natasha to go on three dates rapidly evolved. They would still go out on innocent dates; go-kart racing, watching movies, and feeding pigeons at the park. Sometimes they would stay in, doing the things Harry had said he wanted in a relationship; reading by the light of the fireplace, cuddling on the couch while listening to records, or just lazing about talking about their day.

The one change: the days they spent without each other got shorter.

Twice a week turned into three times a week. When three times a week turned into more, Harry gave her a spare key. Sometimes weeks went by when they left in the morning and returned to each other every night. For three months, they had lived in the same home, slept in the same bed, and finished making love in every room and on just about every surface.

Eventually, Harry just asked her to move in, under the guise of saving her money of course. Traveling receipts from residence to residence or residence to work weren't tax deductible. Not to mention, Natasha spent so much time at his home, there was no need for her to spend the sporadic salary she made on an apartment she barely stayed in.

There were moments where they were without each other. They both had jobs that required them to travel occasionally. Sometimes for just as many days as they spent together, that was part of what made their relationship work.

There was no bitter significant other bemoaning the fact that the other wasn't home enough. Natasha and Harry understood that work was work. No matter the time apart, as long they always came home to each other, it didn't matter.

Such would be the case with that weekend.

Natasha had been offered an audition for a photo shoot. One that required her to travel to Washington D.C. for a few days, a week at most she had assured him.

Part of Harry wanted to call off of work for those few days and go with her. It would be a chance for him to see her in a professional environment. If that environment involved Natasha in lingerie and provocative poses then so be it.

What stopped him was his current workload.

Assignments had been relatively light for Harry in the last few months. Nothing that required his personal touch. However, the same could not be said for the rest of his agency.

In the last six months seemingly unrelated incidents took place at an alarming speed. If it wasn't for the time frame, it could have been labeled as purely coincidental.

Attacks with muggle explosives used to attack the Ministry of Magic in Germany and France. A new designer drug that laced Ecstasy with Felix Felicis flooded the magical European black-market. Magical hospitals like St. Mungos weren't getting much of their needed potions because ingredients were getting bought whole sale by private parties. All happening within a rapid time frame. Combined with an aggregated range of activity, it justifiably made Harry wary.

If his life had shown him anything, it was that downtime was just the calm before the storm. And, with all that was going on, he was sure it was going to be one hell of a disaster.

The frosted glass door of his shower opened. Harry turned on instinct. Amidst the steam stood Natasha dressed in nothing but a grin, her smoky gaze roamed over his wet body approvingly.

"Mind if I join you?" She asked in a tone he knew too well.

"I'd be upset if you didn't." He replied.

Natasha stepped under the ceiling mounted rain shower, drawing her fingers through her hair to push it away from her face. She made a show of it, watched him watch her hands caress the water all over her body. Like Pavlov's dog, Harry's body reacted accordingly.

"What's got you so pensive this morning? Going to miss me?" Natasha asked, pulling him under the stream of water and wrapped her arms around him.

"Don't act as if you don't know what you're doing." He whispered into her ear, placing kisses along her neck. "And of course I'm going to miss you. Home doesn't seem much like home without you here."

"That's sweet, but you know what I mean." She moaned as his lips brushed at the skin at her neck. "Is it work?"

Harry enjoyed the feel of her, roamed her body like it was going to be the last time. An entire week may pass by without feeling her against him again. Harry was an addict and he needed his fix.

It was too bad she needed to be at the airport soon. With Los Angeles traffic and airport security, they would need to be on the road shortly. He would have loved nothing more than to take his time. Savor and devour her so completely she would have the most brilliant memory of her life before departing for D.C.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Natasha sighed, nails digging into his neck as he took his small, gratifying tastes of her.

"I don't want to bother you with my work." He said, taking her lips in his. Partly to stop her from talking so they could just the few more minutes of togetherness.

"I'm bothered when I see you're stressing about it." She managed between kisses.

Natasha drew back slightly, staring at him to see if he would open up. But there wasn't anything he could say to her. No matter how tempted he was to be completely open with her. As Harry said nothing, her grin turned puckish. "Let's see what we can do about that stress. It's no way to start your day."

For a woman set on not seeing him stressed, her hands were doing a remarkable job of increasing his tension.

"Believe me, I'd want nothing more, luv." Harry groaned, hand pushing their bodies closer together in a half-hearted effort to stop her ministrations "But, we do have to be on the road soon, especially if you want breakfast instead of resorting for that rubbish airlines call 'food'."

"There's only one thing I'm hungry for right now baby." Her throaty chuckle slithered into his ear like honey. "Care to guess what it is?"

As if to illustrate, not that Harry needed any more of an illustration with that remark, Natasha turned around. She arched up against him, on hand on his neck and the other on the wall. Turning her grinning eyes over her shoulder, "So, are we going to do the best part of waking up or am I going to have to settle for Folgers?"

Harry stared down at her physically and mentally tormenting position. His hands had automatically trailed up the side of her thighs and settled on Natasha's hips. He found it droll that she had posed her statement as a question. As if there was really any choice.

She knew full well that Harry did not buy Folgers.

 **XXXXXX**

When he had been transferred to Los Angeles, Harry had welcomed the change. Mostly sunny skies, beaches, and a variety of entertainment venues within a thirty-minute radius by car, not to mention it was where he had met Natasha. What was not to like about it?

Traffic.

The mind-numbing, aneurysm-inducing, bring out the worst in humanity traffic.

There was not a workday that the interstate highways weren't jammed packed with cars and trucks. People seemed to forget that they were all trying to get somewhere. They all had jobs to get to and tasks to perform. Perhaps that is why it brought out the worst behavior in so many of them.

The drive to Los Angeles Airport was no different. The 405-Freeway was recorded as the worst freeway to be on during any sort of rush hour. Harry used to mind it. The tedious stop and go used to make Harry forget about living normally and just apparating to work every day. However, Harry found he didn't mind so much with Natasha next to him.

Her hand was in his, absently rubbing his knuckles with her thumb. The radio show that claimed to play uninterrupted music every hour was constantly interrupting the music with the latest celebrity gossip and more minutes of commercials that actual songs.

They sat unperturbed by the honks of horns and hundreds of engines rumbling around them. At most, one of them would hum to a tune when it actually came on. There was none of the anxious rushing he normally felt, probably because he wasn't eager to see her leave.

"Are you sure you don't want me to upgrade your ticket?" Harry asked.

He wasn't one for traveling coach. Honestly, he didn't know how anyone could stand to be in those seats for more than an hour. The designer must have devised them during a very harsh time in their lives, playing such a cruel joke. Even his flights on C-130s were more comfortable, much louder due to the lack of insulation, but still more comfy.

"It's only a five hour flight." Natasha smiled, before bringing his hand to her lips in a kiss, "Thank you for offering though."

"Five hours is five too many if you ask me." Harry grumbled.

She leaned across the center console, laying her chin on his shoulder, "I'm a big girl. I can handle it."

He dropped the subject, going back to just holding her hand and enjoying Natasha's head on his shoulder. Their chaste contact proved Einstein's Theory of Relativity. For all the congestion on the freeway, and the impossible to navigate Departure lanes of the airport, they arrived at the terminal in what felt like a blink of an eye to Harry.

Parking the car in the loading bay, Harry got out of his car and pulled Natasha's luggage from the trunk. Her baggage was a standard carry on, giving Harry hope that she didn't plan on staying long. Rolling it up to her door, he helped her out of the car.

"Well…" He said, holding out the handle of the roller bag to Natasha.

"I'll miss you too, Harry." Natasha said for the both of them with a soft smile. She wrapped herself around him and he could do nothing else but hold her close, breathing her in. Even if it was only temporary, Natasha had become a large constant in his life in such a short amount of time. Shakespeare was right, parting was such sweet sorrow.

"Call the office once you land. If I don't answer, leave a message." He did try not to fuss. Not very well, but he was trying.

It worried him to have her thousands of miles away. If something happened to her in D.C., it would be at least five hours before he could be there. Portkeying in within minutes of a call wasn't an option. Not only was showing up immediately after a phone call not humanly possible, Portkey creation was largely restricted in every ICW country. It would without a doubt bring up questions Harry wasn't able to answer. Not just from the American Ministry, but Natasha as well.

"I will," Natasha assured him, smoothing the lapels of his blazer, "you always do this. Don't worry so much. It'll only be a few days. I'll be back before you even know it."

He could say something about her fussing whenever he left, but was smart enough not to. Instead, Harry clicked his teeth together, smiled, and hugged her to him once more time.

When they leaned away, readying to go their separate ways for a while, Natasha's face was hesitant. As if there were words she wanted to, but could not say. Harry knew the feeling all too well.

"See you later." She said instead.

Harry's heart dropped a little, the three words he wanted to hear not coming. Not that he could complain about it. He hadn't said it either. Harry didn't know what stopped them.

"Yeah." He said softly, letting her go. She had a flight to catch. Harry had to go to work. He hadn't heard the words, but the world kept spinning and they along with it.

Natasha gave him a smile and a nod, before turning to walk towards the terminal. Harry stood in place, hands in his pocket, watching as she grew smaller with the increasing distance between them. When she was steps away from the automatic doors, he made to return to his car. Airport police weren't the most understanding bunch.

"Hey!" Natasha voice rang out. Harry spun quickly, afraid she may have been in distress. She wasn't. She cupped her mouth and shouted, "I love you!"

The cars still crept along the few lanes of traffic. People still busily blurred by him. The world was still spinning. He was sure of it.

It was the wanting of time to stop that changed. Harry wanted the moment to last longer than the seconds that made it up. He wanted to capture this picture perfectly in his mind, a memory he could replay as often as he wanted when his world predictably grew dark.

"I love you too." He said, voice faint as his strength left him. Yet, for as weak as he felt, his heart thundered like a racehorse on the track. Previous weeks of living together seemed to pale in comparison to what her saying those words did to him. Hearing the words from her were his cloud nine.

Harry wasn't sure she knew what he had said until the small curl of her lips turned into a wide, toothy smile. He enjoyed it for the seconds it lasted. Seconds she gave him before truly going on her way. But Harry didn't move, keeping track of her vibrant red hair. He would know it, among other parts of her body, anywhere. He stood still until she vanished behind the doors and sea of people.

His steps were feather-light as Harry got back into his car. The Airport police officer who rudely yelled and motioned at him to get out of his spot didn't bother him. And, even without Natasha physically in the vehicle calming him, LA traffic didn't seem so bad.

 **XXXXXXXX**

The morning turned for Harry as soon as he arrived at work.

Commercial real estate was a lucrative and high-stress business. Agents were either out showing property to perspective buyers, on cold calls with business managers and owners, or tracking down leads for properties that may be about to be sold. New London had an entire floor full of analysts and researchers that studied trends of property values within an area and building histories to look for potential investment risks. There were lawyers who read through sheaves of paper with small print in repetitive and backwards language, or were busy making their own version of hieroglyphics.

However, it wasn't Wall Street. The tasks were tedious, but monotonous, high-stress, but not fast-paced.

Single deal revenue was nowhere near the sum of stock brokers or hedge-funds, but it was steady and reliable. It allowed for employees at New London to have a more relaxed environment. So, it was a shock when the normally civilized employees were running around like they were going to be raided.

But that was an implausible. Who would do it, the Better Business Bureau?

The whole scene made Harry apprehensive.

He made his way towards his office, nodding polite smiles to everyone. Their names were lost on him considering he didn't have much contact with them, but that was normal. The fact that they reacted like he was Death, destroyer of worlds was not. Harry knew that there was a universal dislike of auditors, but they had always been civil. That morning they stared at him like he had just asked them to sacrifice their firstborn.

Even more suspicious was the hallway to his office. His corner office, that had direct line of sight to the ends of the north-east and south-west corners, was a ghost town. Forty yards in either direction of such nothingness, Harry wouldn't have been surprised if a tumbleweed blew by. The answer to his unspoken question lay behind his door.

Sat behind his desk, in his chair was President of New London Investments and Capital, Andromeda Tonks. Harry quelled his instincts, the ones that screamed at him to reach for a weapon or to blast her with a curse. In the dark lighting, she very much did look like her insane sister, Bellatrix. They had the analogous features of siblings.

Just like her sister, Andromeda was a tall woman with long, thick dark hair, thin lips, and a strong jaw. What saved Andromeda was her distinct softness. The shade of brown in her hair that was honey rather than black, her eyes which normally openly radiated softness, care, or playfulness as she sat in his chair, rather than her sisters particular brand of madness. The final touch was a perfectly tailored, three-piece, navy-blue suit. Harry doubted a pureblood princess like Bellatrix would be caught dead in muggle clothing. No matter how expensive it was.

She sat in his chair wearing what Harry described as 'boss face'. Comparable to what pop-culture referred to as 'resting-bitch face', if for only one difference. Harry would never refer to his godson's grandmother as a bitch, though she could be a right harpy in the boardroom from the stories around the water cooler. Regardless, it did give Harry insight into the rather tense mood of the office.

"You're late." Andromeda said abruptly. Harry rolled his eyes, removing his jacket and placing it on the spare hanger he kept in his office.

"'Hello, Harry, how are you doing this fine morning?'" Harry said in an exaggerated parody of Andromeda, his voice in a mocking falsetto before continuing the other half of the bit in his own voice. "Why, I'm doing well Andromeda, how are you? 'Oh, you know it is, I just flew twelve thousand miles, so I'm justifiably cranky'. Oh dear, can I fetch you a cuppa? 'No thank you, Harry, however that is very considerate of you'. It's nothing, I assure you."

She raised a brow, clearly not impressed with his rendition of how niceties between them should have commenced. "You're awfully cheeky this morning."

"I dropped off Natalie at the airport this morning." He said, looking at her meaningfully.

"Okay." Andromeda drawled. "And, this is a good thing because?"

"She finally told me she loved me." Harry remembered pleasantly.

"Oh." Her tone was calm, but the widening in her eyes spoke to her surprise.

He took an abhorrent amount of joy from seeing her poorly conceal the instinct to imitate a fish out of water. It wasn't everyday someone got a rise out of Andromeda Tonks. Much less when she was in a position of power.

"Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time. You have been dating for six months." She composed herself, sitting back into the chair with her fingers steepled together.

"Seven." Harry corrected, before adding on, "And we've been living together for almost half of that."

That seemed to shock Andromeda more than his previous news, "Teddy didn't mention anything about you living together."

"It happened after his visit." He shrugged before pushing to a more important point, "What did Teddy say? Did he like her?"

"Why? Didn't he tell you?" Andromeda smirked, clearly pleased at having regained the upper hand. Turnabout was fair play Harry supposed.

"Well, it was difficult to gauge his reaction. He was so excited, he kept threatening the verge of a shift. I must have given him fifty calming potions to keep his abilities under control. Natalie must think he's constantly being dosed with Ritalin." Harry sighed.

It was a regrettable action, having to use magic to subjugate Teddy's metamorphmagus abilities. However, it wasn't something they could just hire him a tutor for or buy books about for him to read. Exposure was the best way for Teddy to get his shifting under control. To recognize the signs of it happening and, more importantly, know how to stop it. Until that time came, it was up to Harry and Andromeda to stop him, especially when around muggles.

"He liked her just fine." Andromeda finally gave in, before in a blink she glared at him. "Though I take issue with the black eye you gave him."

Harry was tempted to wince, but couldn't find it in himself. There were only so many times a person could jeer, 'you throw like a girl', before something happened. Teddy really was asking for it.

After the twelfth time of Teddy's supposedly playful ribbing, Harry had given his pitch a bit more heat. Not as hard as he possibly could have, but just a little something.

On a positive note, Teddy still managed to catch the ball. However, his glove had been directly in front of his face and well, inertia existed. The caught ball sent Teddy's gloved hand flying towards his face like a punch. Resulting in the black eye Andromeda took exception to.

The worse part of it, at least in Harry's opinion, was having to have close contact with Teddy at all times. The young boy kept attempting to shift his bruise away. If it would've taken away his pain, Harry probably would have let him. As Teddy only wanted not to look like a 'ninny', Harry kept his hand on him and plied his godson with enough calming charms to pacify fiendfyre.

"It taught him valuable a lesson." Harry defended half-heartedly.

"What lesson is that?" Andromeda challenged.

"When something is coming at your face really fast, duck." He shrugged.

"You can't be serious." Before Harry could even open his mouth, Andromeda was quick to growl, "If you make a Sirius joke, I will jump over this desk and give you a proper spanking. You aren't too old to be bent over my knee."

He held his hands up in surrender, the mirth dancing on his face speaking to just how close he was to actually telling the aforementioned forbidden joke. She was not amused. Well, boys would be boys, in both his and Teddy's case.

It was true Andromeda and Harry spoiled Teddy. He doubted either would apologize for the fact. However, unlike Andromeda, Harry would not allow his godson to become some bubble-boy. He wanted Teddy to go out and explore, scrape his knees, get into a few boyhood scuffles. Not much, but just enough. Harry wanted Teddy to have as normal a childhood as possible.

"I'm unsure how to feel about your relationship with this woman progressing so quickly." Andromeda changed the subject, knowing she wasn't going to get an apology. "Introducing her to Teddy, having her move in with you, I would point out your propensity to leap without looking, but it seems self-evident."

Harry shrugged unapologetically. That was just how Harry lived his life. Life was going to swing at him over and over again, whether professionally or romantically. He had taken a few soul-crushing hits, quite a few, in fact. What was important was always getting back up. Bruised, battered, or beaten, Harry was just going to get back up and keep moving forward.

Because there would come a time, plausibly sooner rather than later in his profession, when getting back up wasn't going to be an option. Harry didn't want any regrets when his time did come. No, not no regrets. That was impossible. But at least fewer regrets. No questions about what could have been.

"Your concern is truly touching, Andy," Harry said honestly, "but couldn't you just be happy that I'm happy?"

"I am, Harry. I truly am. Teddy speaks highly of her, so I'm sure she's a wonderful girl." Andromeda exhaled heavily. "However, I know that look in your eyes. It's the same look you have when you are thinking of doing something particularly stupid. Like that time you both begged me to allow Teddy on a broom with you."

"I still maintain that it was perfectly safe." Harry reasoned.

"For you maybe, but I almost had a heart attack. Honestly, who performs a Wronski Feint with an eight-year-old on board?" Andromeda shivering as she relived the memory. "Just thinking about it gives me hypertension."

"I don't think witches can get hypertension." He doubted it was helpful to her hyperbole, but it was a well-known fact that magicals weren't susceptible to most muggle illnesses and diseases. After all, there were a number of obese wizards and witches, and none of them seemed bothered by the symptoms of obesity.

"We're getting away from the point." She insisted.

"You brought it up."

"Just shut up Harry."

Harry held up his hands again in surrender before motioning as if he was zipping up his mouth before locking it and throwing the key away.

"Don't tempt me." Andromeda warned.

Harry just rolled his eyes and waved her to continue with her interrogation. Oh, he was sure she would say it was just a friendly chat, yet he still felt remarkably like a prisoner of war. In his own office no less.

"Just tell me you aren't thinking of doing something as insanely stupid as even thinking about marriage at this point." She almost pleaded.

"No, not marriage." He said, feeling bad for the visible relief that seemed to flood her. She was definitely not going to like what he was going to say next.

"That's good." She said, her smile relaxed, "Nice to see that you haven't lost your mind because of a woman."

Yes, definitely not going to like what he was going to say.

Harry turned his head, covering his mouth with a hand that scratched unendingly at his cheek, "I was thinking about telling her the truth."

"Pardon me?" Andromeda asked, stiffening again. On second thought, Harry wouldn't be surprised if she did develop hypertension.

He sighed to himself. Better to just rip off the bandage. Bracing himself, Harry spoke clearly and slowly, "I said, I'm thinking about telling her the truth about my past, about magic."

"Are you out of your mind?" She was quick to demand.

It rather placid, nowhere near the level of volume Harry had thought the initial outburst would be. He could not help but think that perhaps he had underestimated her, she seemed to be taking the news very well.

"I'm sorry, Harry, that wasn't right." Andromeda waved away any retort he planned on saying. His hope rose again. At least until she sprung up from her seat and slammed her hands on the table, "Are you out of your mind! You've only been dating six months!"

"Seven." He corrected again.

"Whatever!"

Regardless of the turn the volume of their conversation took, the sort that threatened to crack his windows and eardrums, it made Harry more comfortable. That was the sort of reaction he'd expected. Though, he did wonder why she was questioning his sanity. Of all people, Andromeda was the one sure to know that he was one tragic accident away from becoming a comic-book supervillain.

"Andy, calm down" He stood, holding his hands out in front of him like she was a bull, "the children will hear."

"Oh, sod them!" She exclaimed, "Seven months and already you want to…"

Andromeda took a deep, calming breath, gathering her wits about her. It had just hit home that they were at work and any passerby could hear her. Not that Harry believed anyone was brave enough to knock on his door at that moment.

"Explain your logic to me. Everything seems to be going well, you're in the honeymoon stages of your relationship, why ruin it by exposing a secret you and I have spent years burying?"

It was as fair a question as any she could ask. One that Harry had rolled over and over in his mind. The sad truth was he didn't have a definitive answer. A strange occurrence for him, a man who constantly applied objectivity to bring sense to a subjective world, right and wrong, black and white.

That wasn't the case with Andromeda's question. There was no one answer. None that made him as stalwart in his conviction to tell Natasha about his past. Because Andromeda was correct, their relationship was going well, telling her about his past, about the things that made him who he was, was a toss-up. There was no telling if it would ruin things, perhaps irrevocably.

Not everyone could handle the fact that the world they knew contained a much different world underneath it, a world with different rules, different people, and entirely different species. Not everyone could cope with such knowledge. And the consequences of Natasha not handling the news well could be catastrophic.

By exposing himself, Harry would be exposing others around him. On one side of the coin, it could bring Natasha closer to his friends and family, not needing to hide magic, not having to dose Teddy with potions. On the other end, their relationship could implode. Natasha would have to be obliviated, some lie concocted to explain their breakup, and Harry would never be able to contact her again.

The dangers were nearly insurmountable. It was a singular reveal. But that one small clap could start an avalanche.

Yet, knowing all that, Harry wanted to tell Natasha anyway. Selfish of him probably, another uncharacteristic attribute for him. But it was easier to be selfish. Again, to rip off the bandage to save himself, and possibly Teddy, from developing an attachment to a woman who wouldn't stick around.

Because if Natasha couldn't handle the fact that Harry had been someone else in another world, couldn't handle it even if he was technically so far apart from it presently, then there would be no way she could accept him for what he truly was. At least with his job, Harry could understand her not accepting it. However, his past was his past. No matter how it had affected his present, it was still a life he left behind him.

Sort of.

"It's easier this way." He finally answered. It was simple and direct, an answer that quieted the shifting riot of possibilities poisonously infecting his every waking moment.

Andromeda stared at him, her lips tight. He could see the words and emotions warring in her mind, see how they played across her face. The flickers of disappointment, understanding, care, and worry. Harry couldn't blame her. He felt all those things too.

"I'm only saying these things because I care for you, Harry." She sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose, "I want to know you are sure of your path, that your conviction is absolute, because the consequences could be dire."

His smile was weak, his heart and stomach switching places. He was absolutely steadfast in his resolve. There was no fear as far as that was concerned. It was the possible consequences looming over him like a guillotine that scared him. Common sense and threat management argued in him without Robert's Rules of Order and all Harry could manage was a terse, "I know."

They stared at each other, allowing unsaid words to pass between them. Work demanded their utmost professionalism. The ability to set side, or at least harness their emotions into scalpels, instead of the raging hammers most were wont to do.

Harry didn't need to say anything because Andromeda knew he took this decision much more seriously than he did any of his others, because unlike an assignment, it wasn't just Harry's arse on the line. And that was why Andromeda said nothing. Because she knew the gravity of his decision weighed on him heavier than any words that could come from her.

"Should we move on to business now?" Andromeda asked, the shroud of gloom around her lifting like a light breeze.

"Yes! Thank Merlin!" Harry exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. Work was something he could handle with poise and confidence. Even if it had nothing to do with 'work', even if Andromeda wanted to assign him the driest of payroll audits, Harry would have taken the out like a man dying of dehydration grabbed a ticket to a waterpark.

She pulled her expensive gold facet, Italian leather briefcase from the floor and slid it on to his desk. The locked popped with a strong, distinctive click. Harry could tell it was enchanted when a stack of folders much larger than the area of the briefcase were placed on the mahogany wood with a slam.

"I have a great amount of confidence of my abilities, Andy, but this…" Harry trailed off as he ran a thumb along the numerous folders and paper edges. "Well, even I'm not that good."

Andromeda rolled her eyes, spreading the folders and displaying their case identification numbers. "I'm sure you'll remember at least some of these assignments.

Harry leafed through one folder after another, all except the first two with an angry red unicorn stamp with a small 'B' at the right hand corner. "Assassination of the Bulgarian Undersecretary; Bombing in Athens, Sofia. Werewolf clan raids of apothecaries in Germany, Austria, and Denmark,"

Those were just to name a few. There were over half a dozen more that Harry had worked on over the past half a decade.

"That one was especially troubling." Andromeda commented.

Harry nodded his agreement. Werewolf clans operated much like wolf packs. They congregated in a territory, moving within it in established migratory patterns. Werewolves, vampires, and most 'creatures' considered sentient were smart enough to stay away from or at least blend in with the general Wizarding population. They didn't cause problems because they didn't want any.

When a clan moved through Ministry lines, it was unsettling enough because it made it difficult to get an accurate count of members. However, when they moved and committed serial crimes, that was especially troubling. It went against their animal instinct of self-preservation. That meant there was something more valuable to them than their own lives, something like the future survival of their clan.

However, it begged the question.

"All of these are supposed to be resolved. Why are they important?"

"Because of this, we knew back then that there was something strange, given how fast the events took place, but no one was able to place it. Until now." Andromeda pulled a roll of parchment and tossed it across the desk.

Unfurling it, Harry read over the scroll, the words in an even, neat script. "'The magical world has for too long hidden in the shadows, Wizards and Witches made to live in fear, conceal their true selves, and scurry like rats in the face of prejudice and persecution. Magic has seen fit to raise us above normal mortals and yet, we are those that are sent to live in tunnels, to cower beneath mountains, and to languish in obscurity.'"

"Okay," He threw it back on the desk, already bored with memorandum, "they're bonkers. What's new?"

"If you had bothered to read the rest of it, you would know that they are claiming responsibility." Andromeda informed him. "And, you've surely heard of recent events."

"Son of a bitch…" He groaned as it dawned on him, "First time around was a test run."

It was a popular approach for terrorists. Gauge response times, number of personnel, and tactics. In a way it was smart. Blitzkrieg attacks that left first responders scrambling, while the perpetrators sat back in the wings watching and learning. The fact that no solid connection had been made before only made it worse.

Response times could be tightened only so much and Ministry resources could only be stretched so far. Doubling patrols and heightening security could only go on for so long. All the while, the opposition could sit back and plan, no depletion to their own reserves while they lived their regular lives.

It was what made guerilla warfare so difficult to fight. It wasn't like defending against an incoming army, soldiers on each side easily identifiable. The enemy could be anyone. They hid in plain sight, rubbing shoulders with the masses and smiling like ordinary citizens until it was too late.

"And we know for certain they are responsible?" Any loon with enough time, parchment, and a quill could claim responsibility for anything. Harry didn't want to be led on some wild goose chase when real lives were at stake.

"Their manifesto was released via Owl-Post yesterday. Somehow made untraceable. They detailed the kidnapping of the Chinese Minister for Muggle Affair's son, in addition to a ransom demand. Dead drop in muggle currency. Because of the high-profile of the kidnapping, no one outside of the highest level of government was brought into the fold." Andromeda said.

"How'd we learn about it?" Harry asked.

"After the kidnappers murdered the four-man team guarding the Minister's son, they were able to make it to an apparition point and crossed national borders."

That was a strange methodology. Portkeys and apparition were traceable. Not something professionals would do. The safer option was moving on foot or flying via broom at night. Stun the victim, drag them behind with a levitation spell or sling them over the broom handle. Fast, reliable, and virtually undetectable.

Their only reason to apparate…

"They set an ambush for the reactionary force." Harry could not help but sigh. The more Andromeda told him, the more he learned, the more he hated the situation.

"Choke point in a valley. Muggle explosives, with a fail-safe electronic trigger, the magnetic pulse from the Aurors apparition short-wired the explosives, setting them off. Twenty Aurors dead. Further inspection of the scene showed tire tracks that lead into India." Andromeda detailed.

"And the Chinese went to the ICW in a fit, the India ambassadors are claiming no knowledge, and Supreme Mugwump Akingbade was brought in to mediate." Harry finished.

"I'm not surprised you managed to piece it together. So I assume you know what he wants done." Andromeda asked. Harry managed to nod before she added, "Oh, and if you could, please attempt to capture one of them alive. We doubt that they have any real information of the infrastructure of anything other than their own cell, but any information is welcomed."

That could prove to be a problem. Hostage Rescue and negotiation wasn't his forte. Everyone who needed to know, knew that. Harry tended not to negotiate with words. He was more the 'give me what I want or I will burn-your-fields, and salt-the-earth' type.

"I'm not really…" Harry trailed off, knowing Andromeda knew what he was going to say.

"Are you saying this will be difficult?" She raised a brow.

"Very." He deadpanned.

"Good," Andromeda smiled triumphantly, "Considering all the impossible assignments you've handled, difficult should be a walk in the park.

Harry glared at the older woman. There wasn't any heat, merely annoyance. He really was tired of her winning their word-play. But he supposed he should expect it with her experience.

"I will do my best." He shrugged finally.

Andromeda nodded, pleased.

"And I will have the medics waiting."

"Prudent, but I doubt the kidnappers would have harmed the abductee. Less chance of a payout." Harry said.

"They aren't for the victim, Harry."

Harry raised an eyebrow, catching the look in Andromeda's eyes, before shaking his head with a grin.

She knew him all too well.

 **XXXXXXXXXX**

 **AN: Yeah, not much action in this one. That's why I put those two quick scenes with Harry/Natasha fluff. I realized that this story will need a Harry Arc instead of just following Natasha.**

 **Like I said, this is going to be a relatively small story. More on side with a regular novel than an epic. Following the traditional Romance Novel works of Sherrilyn Kenyon, I want both characters to have some problem or another. Natasha's might already be known, so I wanted Harry's to be a surprise.**

 **This chapter shows where Harry and Natasha are in their relationship and builds to his own character arc.**

 **Don't forget to review!**

 **Last chapter got a lot and I hope this one does as well.**


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